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Hi* symphony depicted the sorrows of Russia, the height of the 
steppes, and the aeonies of indigestion. 



By 
LAWTON MACKALL 



With 26 Drawings 
By LAUREN STOUT 




NEW YORK 

LIEBER & LEWIS 
1922 



Copyright 1922 



By LiEBER & Lewis ^ 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



DEC18'22 



4 

a 



S 



To my favorite poet 

Virginia Woods Mackall 



The author thanks Life, Judge, The Century, The 
Quill, The New York Times, The Literary Re« 
VIEW, and The New York Tribune /or kind permis' 
sion to include in this volume certain contributions 
to those publications. He hopes he has remembered 
to ask such permission in each case. 



PREFACE 

IS 

AS good form requires that an author men- 
^ tion in his preface the persons to whom 
he is chiefly indebted, I take this opportunity 
of stating that during the preparation of this 
book I became appreciably indebted to Dr. 
Warren S. Holder, my dentist, Mr. William 
Vroom, my tailor, Mr. M. Tesshow, my sta- 
tioner and tobacconist, and Messrs. Acker, 
Merrall & Condit, my grocers. 

Although these gentlemen neither "cor- 
rected the proofs'' of my book nor "saw it 
through the press," nor allowed me access to 
rare documents and family letters, nor treated 
me to intimate accounts of their fathers and 
great uncles as they knew them ; though they 
did none of these customary things, neverthe- 
less I became decidedly their debtor— and 
still am. 

Indeed, without their stimulus this book 
might never have been written. 

L. M. 



. . . ENCLOSED PLEASE FIND r r , 

What-Nots 

Unsolicited Personal Adornments. ... IS 

Shelf Culture 21 

Portable Pigeonholes 28 

Simile 33 

The Beatified Race 35 

Jouez Balle 41 

The Art of Packing 45 

Agriculture Indoors 52 

Snowy Bosoms 59 

Interior Desperation 62 

The Writing on the Screen 68 

Musiquc Glaccc . 72 

The Care of the Husband 76 

Terminology of Tardiness 81 

Oppressors of the Meek. 83 

Putting Pedagogy Across 90 

Coaching From the Sidelines. ....... 95 

Fast and Loose 99 



Primrose Pathology 103 

Fightier Than the Sword 106 

Enlightment 112 

Holiday Misgivings 116 

All, All Are Gone.... 121 

My Museum 124 

On Chairs— and off 129 

Minims 

The Night of the Fleece 137 

Black Jitney 147 

Light Breakfast ISS 

The Man Opposite 166 

Lucy the Literary Agent 171 

The Creeping Fingers . . 176 

The Man With the Hose , 183 

Jangles 
Those Symphony Concert Programs. . 191 

How to Know the Instruments. 19S 

Notes on Pianos 198 

The Life Drama of a Musical Critic. . 202 
The Survival of the Fattest 210 



WHAT-NOTS 



UNSOLICITED PERSONAL 
ADORNMENTS 

:AVE you ever, on 
returning home 
from a round of 
calls, discovered 
upon your coat 
a large, obtru- 
sive spot? 

Stricken with 
horror, you won- 
der how long it 
has been there. 
Did you have 
this adjunct 
when you ap- 
peared before 
your wealthy 
aunt? That severe female has never quite ap- 
proved of you, and now this will finish you 
as far as she is concerned. Did you exhibit 
yourself thus disgraced at the Brumleighs'? 
You recollect that the maid eyed you queerly 

[IS] 




BIZARRE 

when she opened the door, and that Mrs. B. 
had frequent recourse to her lorgnettes. Then, 
too, both the Greens and the Worthingtons 
seemed a little stiffer than usual. 

How did you acquire it, anyhow? It looks 
and feels like ice cream of a very rich quality; 
ice cream that has drippled merrily in leaps 
and bounds. But you had no ice cream today. 
Neither did you talk to anyone who was hav- 
ing ice cream. 

Perhaps you have been struck by ice cream, 
just as people are struck by lightning. The 
weather does such peculiar things nowadays. 

I have a gray suit that is a constant prey to 
spots. Its frail color^a sickly, betwixt-and- 
between shade, chosen in haste and repented 
of at leisure — puts it utterly at their mercy. 
And they flock to it. 

Things sticky and glutinous pounce avidly 
upon it; nor is its seat reserved from paints and 
varnishes. Sauces afflict it. Oils take advan- 
tage of its helplessness. Grass bedizens it with 
garish green. 

I try my best to protect it — but what can I 
do? What am I against so many? While I am 

[I6g 



BIZARRE 

rescuing my left elbow from the machinations 
of a passing dish, I unwittingly suffer my right 
cuff to be enticed by the gravy in my plate. 
As I walk discreetly in the middle of the side- 
walk, an automobile out in the street salutes 
me with a volley of mud. 

And the most notable spots happen mysteri- 
ously. They appear out of the air, as it were, 
like the pictures that frost makes on window 
panes. I submit the phenomenon of their 
strange origin to the scientific world as an 
instance of spontaneous generation. 

This spotability of my gray suit is surpassed 
only by the achievements of my blue serge. (I 
shall not here discuss my English tweeds, nor 
my Scotch cheviots, nor the braided cutaway 
and the lounge suit that I had made for me in 
Bond Street, for fear the reader might divine 
that I never possessed those garments.) This 
suit is not a victim to spots — it deliberately in- 
vites them. It is a connoisseur, a discrim- 
minating collector. 

Scorning such vulgarities as paint and pitch, 
it seeks the exotic, the outre — amazing stick- 
inesses, bewildering viscosities, undreamed of 

gOOS. [17] 



BIZARRE 

Although delighting in intricacy of design 
and delicate nuances of shading, it prefers 
durability to all other qualities. Some of its 
antiques — particularly a brownish white one, 
resembling an octopus, over the front pocket — 
have stood the test of time and clothes brushes. 

On three occasions this remarkable collec- 
tion has been almost entirely destroyed by ben- 
zine, but each time the principal specimens 
have survived intact. These cleanings divide 
the history of the suit into four epochs. 

Spots of the fourth (or present) epoch are 
of small consequence; spots of the third and 
second epochs are more interesting; while 
spots which antedate the first great deluge 
are quite rare. Among these last are the octo- 
pus and other gems of the collection. 

Once, when I had become exceedingly irked 
at having to go about clad in pseudo-tapestry, 
I handed the suit over to a desperado of a 
ladies' and gents' tailor — a man who had the 
reputation of being capable of getting any- 
thing out of anything or anybody — and be- 
sought him to raze the frescoes. 

He attacked them after the manner cus- 

[18] 



BIZARRE 

tomary to cleaners; that is to say, he drove out 
the spots with smells. Only, he used smells 
that were nothing short of brutal. The rout 
was complete. 

When he brought the suit to my room on 
Saturday night, I could hardly believe my eyes. 
Being forced, however, to believe my nose, 
I hastily opened the window. I could under- 
stand why the spots had departed. I even felt 
sorry for them. 

Not daring to put the suit away, for fear of 
contaminating the rest of my apparel, I hung 
it over the back of a chair by the window. 

But the incoming breeze, instead of carry- 
ing the aroma away, wafted it directly toward 
me. It was certainly strong. It fairly assaulted 
the nostrils. One good whiff of that vicious 
chemical was almost enough to make you 
dizzy. 

It treated me as if I were a spot. 

I picked up a book and tried to read, but 
could not concentrate my attention. 

The spot-destroyer was continually inter- 
rupting. My head was spinning so that I 
could hardly see. 

[19] 



BIZARRE 

I realized that the life of a spot was not a 
happy one. 

Thinking that smoking might help, I was 
about to light a cigarette when I remembered 
reading in the papers of people who struck 
matches in fume-filled rooms and then were 
blown blocks and blocks without knowing 
what hit them. So I gave that up, and sat a 
while dejected. 

Then another scary thought came into my 
mind. What if I should be asphyxiated? I 
pictured myself being found dead in bed, hav- 
ing been extinct for hours and hours, and the 
mournfulness of it broke me all up. 

Overcome with emotion and spot-destroyer, 
I gathered a few things into a suitcase and 
went out to spend the night at a hotel. 

When I returned to my room on the follow- 
ing evening the aroma had gone, and the rays 
of the setting sun, illuminating the old blue 
suit as it hung there on the back of the chair, 
showed me a host of familiar faces — partic- 
ularly that of an especially offensive brownish- 
white octopus over the pocket. They had come 
back every one; not a design was missing. 

[20] 



SHELF CULTURE 



MAN of educa- 
tion and refine- 
ment like you 
needs books be- 
fitting your cul- 
ture — your 
place in the 
world," said my 
visitor. He 
spoke as though 
he were a rev- 
ered friend of 
the family. But 
actually he was 
not just that. I 
had never seen him before. He was honoring 
me with a call at my room on Freshman Row. 
I had come to college to get in touch with 
Belles-Lettres, and, lo, Belles-Lettres were 
seeking me out! Recognition had come far 
sooner than I had hoped. 
To appreciate what I felt, you must know 




[21] 



BIZARRE 

that Belles-Lettres' ambassador was no ordi- 
nary person. He had the clothes of a club- 
man, the benignity of a clergyman, and the 
dignity of an undertaker. There was scholar- 
liness in the droop of the pinch glasses on his 
aquiline nose and as he talked he kept lifting 
his curiously arched eyebrows in a manner that 
fascinated the beholder. 

From the subject of my culture in its 
broader aspects he progressed by easy grada- 
tions to my culture in its relation to the works 
of Hawthorne and Irving, the two authors in- 
dispensable to a man of discerning taste, the 
authors whose writings constituted the log- 
ical nucleus of the well-bred student's library. 
He was happy to be able to tell me of the rare 
opportunity that now lay in my grasp of ac- 
quiring the immortal and exhilarating works 
of both these masters at one and the same 
time — in one and the same set. 

The urgency of my need for Hawthorne and 
Irving being thus established beyond the 
shadow of a hesitance, the only thing for me 
to decide fairly and squarely was whether they 
should come to me in blue half-morocco or in 

[22] 



BIZARRE 

red buckram. The splendid showing that 
either set would make in my bookcase was 
attested by the accordion-plaited binding 
sample which at the proper moment he pro- 
duced and unfolded. Nearly a yard of titled 
book-backs! 

I signed on the dotted line and accepted his 
congratulations, while he accepted my two- 
dollar deposit. 

About a week later the box arrived. Eager- 
ly I lifted forth the magic volumes which 
were to put me on a new intellectual plane. 
Somehow the bindings seemed to need break- 
ing in. They creaked and cracked at the hinges 
and the pages clung together in little groups 
clannishly. The gluing of the backs was 
queer, yet casual. The ''hand" that had tinted 
the "elegant colored frontispieces" was evi- 
dently a heavy one. 

No matter: Hawthorne and Irving were 
mine. I had been taken into the higher circles 
of culture. 

That very evening I plunged into "Mosses 
from an Old Manse." I stuck at it. Each day 
I balanced my morning's Shredded Wheat 

[231 



BIZARRE 

with Hawthorne Mosses at night, till the en- 
tire volume had been systematically consumed. 
Then, having created my new literary uni- 
verse, I rested. 

To-day no one can stump me on Mosses. 
Mention the Old Manse to me and my whole 
manner changes. My face lights up with in- 
telligence. My eyes sparkle. My nostrils di- 
late like those of an old fire engine horse at 
the clang of an alarm gong. Yes, right this 
minute I can give you moss for moss. 

If only I had gone on and read all the other 
volumes of the set. . . . Who knows? I might 
now be dean of a college or a second Dr. 
Frank Crane. Alas, I continued to rest on my 
Mosses, arguing sophistically with my con- 
science that these books, the nucleus of my 
ultimate library, were precious possesssions 
not necessarily for immediate perusal. Time- 
defying classics like Hawthorne and Irving 
would keep and be equally enjoyable years 
hence, if not more so ; in fact, it would be al- 
most extravagant to use them all up in the be- 
ginning. So it was tacitly decided that we three 
— Nathaniel, Washington, and I (the first two 

[24] 



BIZARRE 

in red buckram, the latter in invisible yet palp- 
able Freshman green) — should grow old to- 
gether. 

The fourth member of our little group, he 
who had introduced us, had dropped out. I 
neither saw nor heard from him again. It 
would seem that he worked like lightning, 
striking in the same place only once. Not so 
his firm, however. They struck me by mail 
each month with awful iteration. 

But before a year had passed there de- 
scended upon me another emissary of intellec- 
tualism. This personage expounded to me the 
doctrine of the De Luxe. I learned that an 
edition of any author, no matter how reputable 
that author may be, was mere dross if pub- 
lished for the public at large. Only as a sub- 
scriber, possessing a numbered set of a limited 
edition, could one obtain the quintessence of 
literature. Fiat de lux. Let there be e-lite. 
The fact that this prophet of almost-vellum 
exclusiveness was physically a fat and florid 
Irishman whom a wiser man than I might 
have mistaken for a saloon keeper in his Sun- 
day clothes, did not hamper his spirit. En- 

[25] 



BIZARRE 

thralHngly yet confidentially he discoursed on 
Selected Literature for the Serene Few. I 
could be one of those Serene Few. 

I could. I did. I signed. 

In his display room, to which this rotund 
spider lured me, I examined, enraptured, sets 
of all the leading de luxe writers. There was 
Pepys with pasted labels, Smollett and Field- 
ing with special illustrations, twelve volumes 
of the World's Best Oratory, a bobtailed set 
of Stevenson, the inevitable Plutarch in fool 
morocco that was very like shellacked paper, 
and many more. But the magnum opus of 
them all was a green buckram affair in thirty 
tall tomes calling itself ''The Bibliophile Lib- 
rary of Literature, Art and Rare Manu- 
scripts." To emphasize the word Art in the 
title there was, as an adjunct, a three-foot port- 
folio of reproductions from paintings. Here 
was something that cast Hawthorne and Irv- 
ing into the shade. It was world-wide, wonder- 
ful. (Later I came to know it as the "Hash"!) 

As in a trance, I said yes to the "Bibliophile 
Library," to the Great Orations, to the much- 
shorter R. L. S. Later I took on a few more. 

[26] 



BIZARRE 

My finances grew groggy. Indeed, Europe's 
diificulties over paying her war indebtedness 
are as naught in comparison. Then at last the 
miracle happened: the book concern mislaid 
their record of my indiscretions — and all 
scowls ceased. 

For three years. Then rediscovery. Collec- 
tors, collectors, collectors — not the sort that 
A. Edward Newton writes about. They came 
faster than I could insult them. Litigation. 
Cash compromise. Formal return of books. 

Such is the story of "My Life With Great 
Authors; or, The Horrors of Dunning Street." 

But I shall not allow it to "take its place 
among the successful biographies and intimate 
journals of the season." Distinctly not. It is 
for the elite alone. It is to be published on 
sugar-cured oilskin, the edition to be limited 
to two numbered copies — one for me and one 
for the ashcan. 



[27 




^ 



PORTABLE PIGEONHOLES 

ASIDE from a few ummportant physical 
distinctions, the chief difference between 
man and woman is that his pockets are in his 
clothes, whereas her solitary one dangles fit- 
fully fom her hand. Man is girded about with 
these little repositories for the safekeeping of 
his belongings; while woman, less interested 
in conservation than in cosmetics, holds her 

[28] 



BIZARRE 

booty ever accessible, so as to be able at any 
moment to dispose of $3.98 or powder her 
nose. The ding of her husband^s cash register 
and the click of her dangle bag mark the sys- 
tole and diastole of married life. 

Man delights in multiplictiy of pockets. He 
must have clusters of them, layers of them, 
pockets within pockets. Otherwise his search 
for anything he has hidden on his person 
would be uninterestingly simple. Fancy, for 
example, the monotony of traveling, if, at the 
call "All tickets, please!" there were but a 
single pocket to excavate. And how difficult 
it would be, when riding on a street car, for 
one to put up an appearance of searching mad- 
ly for his purse while he allowed his com- 
panion to pay the fare. 

The instinct for stowing away things in 
pockets, manifested in childhood by a prone- 
ness for smuggling home from parties such 
contraband as strawberry tarts and layer-cake 
with soft icing, continues throughout life. But 
as one grows older the reason for these caches 
is less and less obvious. The delectable but 
adhesive loot in the boy's pocket is soon sepa- 

[29] 



BIZARRE 

rated (as much as possible) from the lining, 
and devoured in rapture; but the dry accu- 
mulations of the middle-aged man, such as 
useless ticket stubs, old newspaper clippings, 
business cards thrust upon him by salesmen or 
accepted absentmindedly when handed to him 
on the street, unposted letters which he prom- 
ised three days ago to drop into the first mail 
box — all these lie buried and forgotten until 
resurrected on suit-pressing day. He secretes 
them with the infatuation of a dog interring 
bones. Only, unlike the sagacious hound, in- 
stead of getting rid of them by this process, he 
merely turns them into encumbrances. 

A pocket that has long suffered from con- 
gestion will sometimes take matters into its 
own hands and empty itself. Without bother- 
ing to give any warning of its intention, it 
acquires a hole in one corner and then quietly 
disposes of its contents. In this way small but 
useful change departs, in company with your 
latch-key, via you trouser leg. And your un- 
fortunate fountain pen, let down suddenly as 
though by the springing of a trapdoor, falls 
clear to the bottom of the inside of your waist- 

[30] 



BIZARRE 

coat, where it lies prostrate, gasping out its last 
spurt of ink. 

There is a treacherous kind of pocket, in- 
habiting a vertical slit in the side of an over- 
coat, that simulates openness when it is actually 
closed; so that the unwary owner, imagining 
himself to be putting a thing into a safe nook, 
is really poking it though a hole and dropping 
it upon the gound. 

The average tailor has an unpleasant sense 
of humor. He allows you fifteen pockets, and 
then proceeds to fit your suit so closely that not 
a single one of them can be used. Unless you 
take the precaution of stuffing each pocket with 
cotton batting when he tries the suit on you, he 
will systematically take in all seams and but- 
tons, in such a way that a post-card inserted in 
the breast-pocket would be sufficient wadding 
to throw the entire coat out of shape. (Perhaps 
he goes on the assumption that when you have 
paid his bill you won't have anything left to 
put there.) Every pocket is a latent distor- 
tion — put something into it and you have a 
swelling, a tumor. Utilize your hip pocket as 
an oasis and you have a bustle. 

[31] 



BIZARRE 

These cares and tribulations are, as we stated 
at the beginning of this treatise, the lot of man 
alone. For woman, while accepting the respon- 
sibility of the vote, has thus far avoided the 
responsibility of the pocket — preferring to let 
her husband be a walking warehouse for two. 
It is her method of maintaining him in subjec- 
tion. If she, too, were bepocketed, she could 
not keep him on the jump picking up things 
she has dropped and trotting back for things 
she has left behind. Nor, if she were not in the 
habit of making him dutifully store her gloves, 
fan, handkerchief, etc., on his person, could 
she put him in the wrong by taking him to 
task for forgetting to return them. 

No, woman is too wise. She talks very 
blandly about equality, but so far the only rep- 
resentative of her sex to wear a real pocket is 
the female kangaroo. 



[32] 



SIMILE 

MORTIMER was as bold as orange-and- 
pink hosiery, and Simile was as elusive 
as a cake of castile soap. When, at the ap- 
pointed hour, he repaired to her house, as 
punctual as a bill collector, she tried, like a 
street-car conductor, to put him off. 

But his mind, like the face of a cutie, was 
made up. Becoming as eloquent as a man in 
a telephone booth which you are waiting to 
use, he said: ^^Simile, I love you!" 

Her lips quivered like a ford, but the look 
in her eyes was as far away as Brooklyn. 

"Ah, marry me" he pleaded, his voice 
sounding as hollow as a campaign pledge, 
" — or I shall be as wretched as porous cus- 
tard." 

He edged nearer to her, till he was almost 
as close as the air in the subway. He gazed 
anxiously at her face, the way a person in a 
taxicab gazes at the face of the meter. Her 
skin was smooth as a confidence man and clear 
as boarding-house soup. He put his arm about 

1^3] 



BIZARRE 

her slender waist, which was slim as a libra- 
rian's salary. 

Yielding suddenly, like a treacherous 
garter, she murmured, in a voice as soft as 
stale crackers, while tears rushed to her eyes 
like shoppers to a bargain counter, ''I am 
yours." And she clung to him like barbed wire. 
A thrill of joy went through Mortimer like 
a highwayman. "Ah! he cried. "Then I am 
as happy as a coincidence!" 



[34] 



THE BEATIFIED RACE 

IT is wrong to assert that our fiction maga- 
zines have lost their power to inspire, to 
uplift. High romance and whole-hearted 
cheerfulness have not deserted them. These 
qualities have merely migrated to the adver- 
tising pages. The morbid, unpleasant fiction 
is only a short interlude between the innocent 
joys of Nabiscos and fireless cookers, and the 
wholesomeness of Mellin's Food. After sin 
and adulteration comes 99 44-100 per cent 
pure. 

The people in the advertisements help us 
to forget those in the stories. These pictured 
endorsers display a generosity that I have not 
met with elsewhere. They offer me, a total 
stranger to them, the most delicious refresh- 
ments, costly gifts in silverware, whole suites 
of furniture; they make me aware of ^4ong- 
f elt" wants ; they volunteer to teach me Span- 
ish or osteopathy or plumbing in ten lessons ; 
they propose to send me immediately a porta- 
ble house in many pieces, or a new lease of 

[35] 



BIZARRE 

life in many doses. They take a most personal 
interest in me, enquiring sympathetically, 
''Are you bilious?" 

Here, I confess, I sometimes feel embar- 
rassed. When my old family doctor asks me, 
in the privacy of his office, questions of this 
sort, I am prepared to answer them ; but when, 
as I am turning over the pages of a magazine 
at a public news-stand, someone bobs out from 
behind a respectful soap advertisement and 
accosts me brusquely with, ''How is your 
liver?" or "Are you bowl egged?" — I feel 
positively uncomfortable. 

This forwardness, due to the bad influence 
of the fiction characters, is, I regret to say, a 
trait of some of the women. (How sad it is 
that editors should wilfully allow them to be 
contaminated! I have seen a little Campbell 
Soup girl of quite a tender age, placed on the 
same page with a heroine whose only topic of 
conversation was unmoral love.) Luxuriant 
creatures, as unabashed as they are beautiful, 
invite my approval of their stays, and make 
disclosures of the most sensational kind. All 
of this may be in accordance with the modern 



BIZARRE 

ideas of frankness, may be part of the sex-edu- 
cation campaign — but somehow I can't get 
used to it. I am still old-fashioned enough 
to believe that woman's place is in the home, 
especially when she is undressing. 

However, while the behavior of these peo- 
ple toward me is occasionally a bit disconcert- 
ing, their deportment toward each other is 
uniformly admirable. In their own sphere 
they lead model lives. 

Their family devotion, for example, is a 
treat to behold. Just see Mama and Papa 
and Susie and Marian and little Jack, all 
seated around the dining-table! From their 
happy smiles it is easy to tell that they love 
each other and Jell-O. After dinner, dear kind 
Papa will not bury himself in the evening 
paper, as selfish, inconsiderate papas do — he 
will give Mama and the good, rosy-cheeked 
children each a stick of Spearmint. Then all 
the family will gather 'round the fire in peace- 
ful attitudes and listen to the phonograph, 
which protects the atmosphere of their home; 
and Susie will sit on the arm of Papa's chair 
and fondly compare their Holeproofs. 



BIZARRE 

Later, when Susie's bright young man, 
dressed in a nobby Kuppenheimer suit, comes 
to win her heart with a box of Huyler's, Mama 
whom Papa still adores because her com- 
plexion is youthified with Pompeiian, will 
take Marian and little Jack upstairs and show 
her maternal tenderness by teaching them how 
to make Colgate's Dental Cream lie flat on a 
Pro-phy-lac-tic. They learn gladly, for they 
love Mama and wear garters and union suits 
just like hers. 

Even more remarkable than the family devo- 
tion of these people is their supreme capabil- 
ity. They never do anything without brilliant 
success. Papa can, whenever he feels the in- 
clination, build a launch, or become a magne- 
tic speaker, or earn eighty dollars a week in 
his spare time, or evolve a thriving chicken 
farm from two eggs. When he goes fishing, 
you see him in the act of reeling in a six- 
pound trout; when he goes duck hunting, you 
see him casually bringing down a bird with 
each barrel ; and when he plays billiards, you 
see him, in a backhand position and a Don- 
chester shirt, executing a shot that would 

[38] 



BIZARRE 

make the reputation of even a professional. 

Look at him now, seated at his desk in his 
office, directing a great business, without the 
least worry or effort. See the respect on his 
employes' faces! At this very moment he is 
concluding a deal that involves millions. And 
yet how calm he is! All because he wears 
B. V. D.'s. 

In short, the race of endorsers, produced by 
the eugenics of advertising, is not subject to 
the ills that ordinary flesh is heir to. They 
are the heroes of the present age, deified, like 
Greek Orion, in the realms of ^^space" — long- 
legged, serene, divinely handsome. We, poor 
mortals, humbly try to imitate them, and lay 
our wealth at their shrines, as did the Ancients 
at the altars of their gods. Our Ceres is Aunt 
Jemima; our Mercury is Phoebe Snow; our 
Adonis is the Arrow Collar youth ; our Venus 
is the Physical Culture lady; and our Romulus 
and Remus are the Gold Dust Twins. 



[39] 




Le plus grand tournoyeur sud-patte. 



JOUEZ BALLE! 

NEW and better ideas of child education 
are steadily making their way. Nearly 
every one now acknowledges that the school- 
room should be primarily a place of enter- 
tainment, that the true vocation of the teacher 
is to amuse in an instructive manner, and that 
study is really a scientific form of play. Also, 
it is quite generally admitted that methods 
which involve mental effort on the part of the 
child are not to be tolerated. 

So much progress has already been made. 
But now there has just appeared a book which 
bids fair to carry the educational advance as 
far ahead again. This book, entitled "A Base- 
ball Primer of French," substitutes for the 
conventional pedantry of conjugations, syn- 
tax, etc., a vivid account in French of an imag- 
inary world's series. Any boy who studies it 
will understand it instinctively; for if the 
foreign text prove obscure, he has only to read 
the English translation underneath. 

The author. Speed Stevens — ^who, it may 

[41] 



BIZARRE 

be remembered, was captain of his college 
nine, — shows a profound knowledge of base- 
ball. Indeed, it is on account of his ability as 
athletic coach that he holds his position of in- 
structor in French at Croton. 

The following extract gives an inkling of 
the rare pedagogical value of the book: 

Dans le dixieme point, avec deux hommes 

In the tenth period, with two men 

sur bases et un sorti, Harburg eventa. Alors 

on bases and one out, Harburg fanned. Then 

Bill le Rosseur ramassa sa chauve-souris et 

Bill the Walloper picked up his bat and 

marcha a grands pas a Tassiette. Hank 

strode to the plate. Hank 

Harrigan, vrai a ses lauriers de plus grand 

Harrigan, true to his laurels as the greatest 

vivant tournoyeur sud-patte, partit avec un 

living southpaw twirler, started off with a 

tirer-dedans qui faisait zip-zip, entaillant une 

zipping in-shoot, scoring a 

frappe. Le suivant fut un bal. Dugan, au 

strike. The next a ball. Dugan, on 

premier, descendit avec son bras et vola la 

first went down with his arm and stole 
[42] 



BIZARRE 

deuxieme base, mais Brown fut mis en dehors 

second base, but Brown was put out 

au troisieme. Alors la cruche mis en dessus 

at third. Then the pitcher put over 

un bal saliveux: frappe deux. Puis, vinrent 

a spit-ball: strike two. Then came 

encore deux bals. Le comte etait maintenant 

two more balls. The count was now 

trois a deux, et les eventails s'asseyaient sans 

three to two, and the fans sat breath- 

haleine. 

less. 

Bill assomma une longue mouche qui tomba 

Bill knocked out a long fly which fell 

volaille. II suiva celle-ci avec une volaille 

foul. He followed this with a pop 

poppeuse, qui Taurait fini n'eut ete un 

fly, that would have finished him, 

manchon stupide de la part de Tattrappeur. 

but for a stupid muff by the catcher. 

Harrigan devenait grince, et Cathaway, 

Harrigan was becoming rattled, and Cathaway, 

voiturant de la ligne de cote, lui criait, "Bras 

coaching from the side-line, yelled at him, "Glass 



[431 



BIZARRE 
de verre! II monte! II monte!" La 

arm ! He's going up I He's going up I'* The 

cruche envoya une goutte facile; Bill debarqua 

pitcher sent an easy drop; Bill landed 

la-dessus carrement, le menant par-dessus la 

on it squarely, driving it over the 

tete de Tarrete-court, loin dans le champ 

short-stop's head, far into left 

gauche. C'etait un oiseau d'une f rappe. Dugan 

field. It was a bird of a hit. Dugan 

entailla, et puis Bill, gaiement circlant les 

scored, and then Bill, gaily circling the 

sacs, glissa sauf chez soi, pendant que les 

bags, slid safe home, as the 

blanchisseurs allaient sauvages. 

bleachers v\^ent wild. 



[441 



THE ART OF PACKING 

With a Disquisition on the Science of Rooting 
for What You Have Packed 



,QE3ZCBBBBZSE&I 



H 



TRAVELER is 

a person who 
escorts baggage. 
He may think 
he is taking a 
trip for business 
or pleasure, but, 
whether he be 
journeying from 
Brooklyn to 
Hoboken with 
one trunk, or 
touring Europe 
with a bevy of 
handbags, h i s 
real occupation consists in chaperoning im- 
pedimenta. 

There is something almost touching about 
the way in which he looks after his little 
flock — seeing that they are properly tagged, 




iiinniH aaB 



[45] 



BIZARRE 

counting them anxiously to be sure that none 
are missing, defending them from the cruelty 
of expressmen, pleading for them at the feet 
of customs inspectors. He has care for the 
humblest satchel. If it be lost he will set down 
three full suitcases and seek after it until he 
find it. 

Not that he is actually fond of his luggage. 
But he has packed it and brought it with him, 
and therefore he is under obligation to it; is 
responsible for its well-being. 

He knows in his heart that many of the 
clothes he has brought will never be worn, and 
that most of the books he has stowed away — 
dry looking volumes which he long ago de- 
cided he ought to read but which somehow he 
has never got 'round to — will not be opened. 
Nevertheless, he has these things with him, 
and it is his duty to cherish them and see them 
safely back home again. 

As he unpacks his belongings at the first 
stop, he wonders what his state of mind could 
have been when he packed them. Why had he 
deemed his shaving brush de trop? And why, 
oh why, had he abandoned his faithful slip- 

[46] 



BIZARRE 

pers? Had he imagined that two left-hand 
rubbers constituted a pair? Five hats and caps 
are all very nice, but why did he put in only 
four handkerchiefs? And even an array of 
fifty-seven neckties affords poor consolation 
for the total absence of socks. As for the bath- 
ing-suit, the morning tub would be the only 
place where he could use that, and even there 
it would hardly seem appropriate. 

Anybody with the price of a ticket can 
travel from one city to another, but it takes a 
real genius to pack a trunk. The art must be 
practiced in its purity; there must be no mix- 
ing of the pancake (or roll-'em-up) style with 
the flapjack (or spread-'em-out-flat) style. 
Such eclecticism is pernicious. 

Considered from another point of view, 
packing is a fascinating game. You put all 
sorts of objects in a trunk, the baggage man 
churns them thoroughly, and then you take 
them out again and try to guess what they 
are. You meet with a hundred different sur- 
prises. For instance, you never would have 
dreamed that a derby hat could turn inside 
out, or that a single suit could acquire ninety- 

[47] 



BIZARRE 

three separate and distinct creases, or that a 
book could swallow a mirror and have indi- 
gestion from it, or that a bottle of ink inside 
seven wrappings could break and assert itself 
over a pile of shirts and a month's supply of 
collars. 

But the great paradox of packing is that a 
trunk is always full when you close it and al- 
ways three-quarters empty when you open it. 
The trunk that nothing but violent stamping 
will shut is the very trunk that, a few hours 
later, bounces your possessions about like 
beans in a rattle ; so that when you lift the lid 
again you find them huddled forlornly in a 
corner, exhausted and battered from their 
shuttle-istics. 

Another peculiarity is that nothing that you 
want is where you think it is. The garment 
that you clearly remember putting in the right- 
hand front corner of the top tray is sure to 
turn up at last in the opposite part of the bot- 
tom. Indeed, sooner will the Sphinx give up 
her secret than the trunk give up the thing you 
are looking for. To dig up de profundis a 
shoehorn that you need is a more remarkable 

^ [48] 



BIZARRE 

achievement than to unearth a new Pompeii. 
Rooting is a science. Suppose, for instance, 
you wish to locate a pair of scissors without 
disturbing the general order. You begin by 
classifying the scissors in your mind, in order 
that you may calculate their position in the 
trunk. You consider them with reference to 
the following scheme of arrangement, which 
you recite as if you were an elevator boy in a 
department store: 

1. Main Tray. Shirts, collars, hats 
handkerchiefs, and toilet articles. 

2. Mezzanine Tray, Dress clothes, 
neckwear, art goods, and bric-a-brac. 

3. Basement. Shoes, hardware, suits, 
underwear, books, medicines, and 
sporting goods. 

Concluding, after due deliberation, that the 
scissors are equally appropriate to all of these, 
you start in on the main tray, sliding your 
palms around the edge as though you were 
easing ice-cream out of a mold. 

No scissors. 

You delve deeper, using the back of your 
hand as a plow-share. 

[49] 



BIZARRE 

No scissors. 

Refusing to be baffled, you leave no garment 
unturned. 

No scissors. 

Growing a trifle impatient, you take out the 
main tray and tackle the mezzanine. This will 
be a simple matter, because it is so shallow 
that you have only to feel around the edges. 

No scissors. 

Perhaps they got shaken into the middle. 
You burrow there, making considerable work 
for the clothes-presser. 

No scissors. 

Now you are genuinely angry. You toss the 
mezzanine upon the arms of a chair. It is a 
rocking-chair, and it slides the tray gently for- 
ward and deposits it face downward on the 
floor. 

Pretending to ignore this, you plunge both 
arms into the basement so violently that the 
lid unclicks and gives you a cowardly blow 
on the back of the head. 

You rise up and vow that this your chattel 
shall flout you no longer. Seizing it fiercely, 

[50] 



BIZARRE 

you turn it upside down — you dump its con- 
tents about the room. 

No scissors! 

Then there steals into your mind a vision of 
the above-mentioned cutlery lying on a chif- 
fonier in a room hundreds of miles away — and 
the realization that they are probably lying 
there still. 



[51J 




AGRICULTURE INDOORS 

THE usual package of seeds has not ar- 
rived. Is the Hon. , my Rep- 
resentative in Congress, neglecting me? The 
uncertainty appals. 

Year after year this eminent legislator has 
favored me with floral tributes in kernel form, 
so that I have come to think of them as my in- 
alienable rights as a constituent. True, as is 
the case with the thousands of other voters in 

[52] 



BIZARRE 

this urban district which he represents, I have 
no facilities for horticulture. Living in a 
New York apartment seven stories up and un- 
equipped with arable soil (the nondescript 
substance which deposits on my window sills 
from outshaken mops above would scarcely 
qualify as loam), I have been at a loss as to 
what disposition to make of said seeds. 

"My dear friend," writes the benevolent 
legislator, "I am inclosing a list issued by the 
Department of Agriculture showing bulletins 
available for free distribution, which contain 
very valuable information for all classes of 
readers." And he invites me to choose any six, 
by number, that he may promptly send them 
to me. 

Only six! To select that limited allotment 
from so alluring a galaxy is difficult, not to 
say bewildering. 

No. 73 catches my eye — "Fly Traps and 
Their Operation." I simply must have that 
one. It seems to promise an insight into the 
mysteries of oratory. Perhaps it may enable 
me the better to appreciate my M. C. 

Nor can I hope to live a rounded life if I 

[53] 



BIZARRE 

fail to assimilate No. 940, "Common White 
Grubs," and No. 920, "Milk Goats," and No. 
788, "The Windbreak as a Farm Asset." 

That makes four already; to which I must 
certainly add the kindly No. 1105, "Care of 
Mature Fowls," and the arrestingly realistic 
No. 1085, "Hog Lice and Hog Mange." 

Thus my six choices are used up, and I am 
but at the threshold of this new world of 
knowledge that lies tantalizingly before me. 
What of No. 685, celebrating that splendidly 
uncompromising American growth, "The 
Native Persimmon," and the intriguingly 
cryptic Nos. 515 and 1143, revealing the se- 
crets of "Vetches" and "Lespedeza as a 
Forage Crop"? Surely this coveted informa- 
tion should not be withheld from me. 

Why should I be deprived of the privilege 
of reading aloud to my family No. 762, "False 
Cinch Bug — Measures for Control," and No. 
1127, "Peanut Growing for Profit," and No. 
948, "The Rag-Doll Seed Tester"? If such 
romances were available for every one there 
would be less senseless gadding about on the 
part of our young folks. Let the flapper fill 

[54] 



BIZARRE 

her mind, not her flask, with No. 767, "Goose 
Raising,'' or No. 757, "Commercial Varieties 
of Alfalfa." And let her heed the warning 
against short skirts in No. 1135, "The Beef 
Calf." 

It has been said that there is in America 
insufficient appreciation of architecture. Ah, 
true, my friends. Let the multitude con No. 
438, "Hog Houses," and, as examples of chaste 
suppression of meaningless ornamentation, 
Nos. 966 and 682— "A Simple Hog-Breeding 
Crate" and "Simple Trap Nest for Poultry." 

Included in this invaluable list are to be 
found not only the frankly practical but also 
the vividly dramatic. Offsetting such every- 
day but significant matters as No. 1189, "The 
Handling of Spinach for Shipment"; No. 
1153, "Cowpea Utilization"; No. 1161, 
"Dodder," and No. 978, "Barnyard Manure 
in Eastern Pennsylvania," there are offered 
imagination stirring themes like No. 835, 
"How to Detect Outbreaks of Insects"; No. 
874, "Swine Management," and No. 1003 
(one that should be especially prized by the 
impecunious), "How to Control Billbugs." 

[55J 



BIZARRE 

Until I read this list I had no idea that 
spiritualism had entomological phases which 
Conan Doyle seems to have overlooked. Again 
and again there is mention of strange crea- 
tures and their psychic "controls": No. 1074, 
"The Bean Ladybird and Its Control"; No. 
1060, "Harlequin Cabbage Bug and Its Con- 
trol"; No. 897, "Fleas and Their Control," 
and No. 975 (presumably throwing light upon 
the immigration problem), "The Control of 
European Foulbrood." 

More comprehensible to me are the follow- 
ing. Anent home life and pets: No. 1014, 
"Wintering Bees in Cellars"; No. 1104, 
"Book Lice," and No. 846, "Tobacco Beetle 
and How to Prevent Loss." (Does one keep 
the beetle on a leash, I wonder?) Bolshevism: 
No. 1054, "The Loco Weed." Chambers of 
Commerce, Get-Together Clubs, etc.: No. 
993, "Cooperative Bull Associations." Pro- 
hibitionists: No. 1220, "Insect and Fungus 
Enemies of the Grape." 

All in all, there are at least thirty bulletins 
which every citizen of this metropolis needs 
to make him an intelligent voter. And my 

[561 



BIZARRE 

M. C. allows me but six! 

"My allotment being limited," he explains. 
But why should his allotment be thus limited? 
Since he grants that the bulletins are indis- 
pensable to my enlightenment, it is not for him 
to apologize, but to see that I am fully sup- 
plied with them. To protest that the Depart- 
ment of Agriculture cramps his largess is no 
excuse, for does not almighty Congress rule 
the Department of Agriculture and run it in 
the interests of the People and not for the sake 
of a lot of rubes? No; let him spur the de- 
partment to greater efforts, press the presses 
to greater output. 

When my little son looks up into my eyes 
and asks, "Daddy, tell me about the flat- 
headed apple tree borer," am I to answer him: 

"Sorry, my boy, but Bulletin No. 1065 was 
denied me by a niggardly government?" 

My M. C. will not have done his complete 
duty till every home in this city boasts a five- 
foot shelf of bulletins and the head of every 
family can gather his dear ones about the 
radiator in the evening with a cheery: 

"Ah ! now we take up No. 956, The Spotted 

157] , , 



BIZARRE 

Garden Slug.' Every one who pays strict at- 
tention gets a hollyhock seed." 

Only then will the true function of govern- 
ment be realized. 

Meanwhile. . . . 
The seeds have come! 



[58] 



SNOWY BOSOMS 

AT the risk of seeming churlish, a veritable 
outcast from society, I confess that I 
have no great fondness for snowy bosoms. I 
realize that they are generally considered 
beautiful, and that their virgin whiteness is 
the embodiment of unyielding purity; and yet 
I cannot but prefer the more comfortable 
negligee shirt. 

If only they could be soft-boiled. I would 
so appreciate a three-minute one. (I know it 
would sit better on the stomach.) The white 
could be firm enough to hold together, and 
yet not so much so as to require a knife to break 
into it. 

Gala chemises that approached this ideal 
did appear several seasons ago. Their frontis- 
pieces were encrusted with a swarm of very 
young tucks, which rendered them quite do- 
cile. But these gentle, easy-going garments, 
with their pliant pleats and amenable button- 
holes, could not survive. They were, alas, too 
soft. They lacked the stoicism of starch. They 

[59] 



BIZARRE 

could not hold their own against the sterner- 
fibred armored breastworks. 

And so we men of today when we go to per- 
form our evening devotions to the ladies have 
upon us the same old white plague. 

I might find some consolation in the fact 
that my aversion to it is shared by all laun- 
dries. Yes, the laundry is my avenger. With 
Macchiavellian guile it invites shirts, seeks 
them, welcomes them, professes a yearning 
passion for them; and then subtly destroys 
them in secret. Commit an insufferable new 
stud-smasher to a laundry and note the fate 
that overtakes it. See what happens to its bold 
front. A week later it will be brought back to 
you with its spirit quite broken, and its tail be- 
tween its sleeves, and held in subjection by a 
squad of menacing pins. 

The moment you rend the veil of wax pa- 
per with which they have discreetly concealed 
its destitution, you are amazed to find how it 
has aged in one short week. It has become like 
the sear and yellow leaf. There are crow's 
feet at the corners of its buttonholes. It is so 
weak that they have had to send it on a paste- 

[60] 



BIZARRE 

board stretcher to keep it from going all to 
pieces. 

Your erstwhile festive buckler now looks 
more like the bosom of Abraham. 



1611 



INTERIOR DESPERATION 

IT is easy nowadays to get advice on how to 
arrange your home. The Woman's Page 
in any newspaper will tell you just how your 
living-room ought to look, just how your hall- 
way may be beautified, and just how your kit- 
chen may be transformed into a scientific lab- 
oratory. Scores of books by experts on the sub- 
ject undertake to instruct you how to change 
your home from a place to live in to a work 
of art. 

Realizing that my abode needed a little 
toning-up along modern aesthetic lines, I con- 
sulted a book called "The Dwelling Beauti- 
ful," which I had been informed would give 
me just the help I needed. "It is not neces- 
sary that your furniture, rugs, hangings, and 
pictures be expensive/' says the author, reas- 
suringly. "The only essential is that they be 
beautiful in themselves and in restful accord 
with each other." 

Pray, gentle writer, did you ever see my be- 
longings? Did you ever see the marble- and- 

[62] 



BIZARRE 

walnut parlor table that Aunt Jessamine gave 
me; or the streakily-stained Mission piano, 
with mottled glass panels and gew-gawy 
candle-brackets, that my wife won in the 
guessing contest and is therefore inordinately 
proud of; or the case of stuffed birds which 
Uncle Lemuel left me in his will? How am I 
to make these things "beautiful in themselves 
and in restful accord with each other?" 

The truth is, none of our furnishings are 
gregarious. From the green rug whose acrid 
hue assaults every other color in the room, to 
the wonderfully and fearfully made "orna- 
mental'^ lamp, each thing is what the adver- 
tisement writers would call ^'different/* Rabid 
in their nonconformity, how am I to make a 
happy family of them? 

The main feud is between our heirlooms 
and our wedding presents — the former being 
atrocities in oak, walnut and plush of the Vic- 
torian era, and the latter, present-day garish- 
nesses; so that the general effect might be 
likened to a colon: one period on top of an- 
other. 

The author of "The Dwelling Beautiful" 



BIZARRE 

would probably suggest that I get rid of some 
of these incumbrances. The lamentable fact 
is that I cant. My relatives would disown me. 
For my whole family connection — not to men- 
tion my wife's (about which much might be 
said) — takes upon itself to police my belong- 
ings. Every visit of a relative, even the casual 
call of my most distant cousin, means a critical 
inspection, a careful stock-taking of heir- 
looms and wedding presents. 

A person who gives you anything as a wed- 
ding present never forgets it. His taste may 
be erratic, but his memory is inexorable. Be- 
cause a thing happened to catch his fancy in 
an oflf-moment, it is anchored in your home 
forever. And the feeling of self-appreciation 
for his generosity, which he experiences when- 
ever he beholds his gift in after years, prevents 
him from admitting, even to himself, that he 
was out of his mind when he bought it. Hence, 
you are doomed to be its perpetual curator, 
with the obligation to display it prominently, 
so that whenever he chooses to enter your 
house he may see it and claim it with his eye. 

An heirloom is still worse. Each one that 

[64] 



BIZARRE 

you have in your possession might have gone 
to somebody else, and that somebody else feels 
that he or she would have appreciated it more 
than you do. Nevertheless, for you to dis- 
burden yourself of a single heirloom by pre- 
senting it to the person who coveted it most, 
would be to precipitate a family crisis. 

Take, for instance, that case of stuffed birds. 
Every time Uncle Lemuel's daughter sees it 
she tells me how much it always meant to her, 
and how the old house seems empty without 
it. Yet whenever I offer to make her a present 
of it she bursts into tears, and sobs that her 
dear father wanted me to have it, because I 
had once told him I liked birds, and that there- 
fore she would be the last person in the world 
to deprive me of it. 

So, along with all the rest of the harmony- 
killers, I am saddled for life with this ornith- 
ological incubus. It is true, as Cousin Ophelia 
says, that I like birds; but my fondness for 
them does not continue after they are defunct 
and stuffed; neither does it include owls, 
whether alive or dead, and there are no less 
than three owls in that cabinet — gloomy, dusty, 

[65] 



BIZARRE 

evil-looking fowls, their big yellow glass eyes 
wide open and staring. I'll wager they had 
their eyes closed when Uncle Lemuel shot 
them. He never was much of a sport. 

Be that as it may, these lugubrious speci- 
mens are on my hands. I kept them in the 
living-room till I couldn't stand them there 
any longer. (Strangers would ask me how I 
happened to take up taxidermy.) Then I re- 
moved them to the dining-room, where they 
promptly took away my appetite. Transferred 
subsequently to the nursery, they caused Mam- 
ma's Pet to go into convulsions of terror. I 
offered the cook an increase in wages if she 
would take the cursed things into her room; 
she threatened to leave. I made a pathetic 
appeal to my wife to take them into hers; she 
reminded me coolly that Uncle Lemuel was 
my uncle. Now they are in my room, in the 
corner where I used to keep my favorite chair. 

But something tells me that they may not 
endure there forever. I am a mild-disposi- 
tioned man, long-suffering, and tractable ; but 
that cabinet of birds is too much. 

Some day you may see clouds of smoke pour- 

[66] 



BIZARRE 

ing out of "my windows and fire-engines pull- 
ing up at my door. If you do, don't feel sorry 
for me or censure me. A burning need will 
be satisfied. It will be a case of sponsored 
combustion. 



{(>7\ 



THE WRITING ON THE SCREEN 

BEING interested in human nature in all 
its manifestations, I have lately made a 
study of handwriting as it is shown in the 
moving pictures. I undertook this research 
because I had been given to understand that 
chirography, when scientifically analyzed, re- 
vealed every nuance of human character; and 
because the personages in moving-pictures, 
being intensely dramatic, could not fail to 
have striking individualities as penmen. 

Let me give some of the interesting ex- 
amples which I found. Here, for instance, is 
a confidential communication from a great 
financier to one of his associates: 

BuA^ 30.000 Jx<xAAJx c4 B V id um/^Ti^.- 

Observe in what a firm, steady hand this 
is written. It shows that the great financier can 
be cool even in a crisis. No wonder he is suc- 

[68] 



BIZARRE 

cessful. He always looks ahead; he never 
crosses a T until he comes to it. Clear-visioned 
he is; his I's have their specks on straight. 
Such a man will go far without being missed. 
The next specimen is a letter written by the 
dashing young hero to the heroine. It reads : 

Stanch and dependable. His passion is in- 
tense, yet he is too loyal to betray it. Note 
the uncompromising uprightness of his L's. 
You just can't help trusting him, because, as 
he says, he hasn't any money. 

Here is a letter penned by a wayward wife. 
Fraught with tense emotion, it is indeed a 
moving human document. She writes : 

J/ a/rvu texiAH/Vv^ i^xma/ tcyrux^ivC [>oA/ 
tAHA/. 3*1/1^ to- U/TvcU/\<iXa/rucl— o^rvcl L<w- 

Jl com. ^^OOAyCt^ UVwXt/ J) ?-Uv]a^ -tjXM^ 

Qa/vxvcO/. 

[69] 



BIZARRE 

What a wealth of sorrow this hand-writ- 
ing displays! Poor, unfortunate woman, tear- 
ful and yet volatile! Her M's are bowed with 
grief, and yet they have an arch look. Out 
of touching deference to her first love she 
makes a desperate effort to be neat; she is not 
willing that her husband's last memento of 
her should be a sloppy one. Even when about 
to commit a sin, she still retains that refine- 
ment of nature which he has always rev- 
erenced, that indescribable feminine delicacy 
which was wont to reveal itself in such little 
acts as shrinking visibly at the touch of un- 
clean overshoes. 

There are innumerable other examples 
which might be cited, handwritings of every 
conceivable kind; but the endless variety of 
them would merely tend to bewilder. There- 
fore I shall give only two more and without 
extended comment; for, indeed, their char- 
acteristics jut out quite protuberantly. 

The little six-year-old child raises her face 
wistfully from her piece of angel food and 
scrawls : 



[70] 



BIZARRE 

(jQ^toA/ jQoucLcLxp: 

Truly a revelation of the artistic nature. 
In contrast to this, let us examine what Jim- 
mie the Dope, escaped convict, scribbles to his 
confederate : 

to-rux^K/t xuxAoj. to dx> t^^>ot-, 6u/t foo^ 

This particular specimen has a tragic inter- 
est for us. It demonstrates the failure of our 
modern institutions. Here is a man forced by 
society into a felon's trade who was capable 
of earning an honest living as an instructor in 
penmanship. 



[71] 




MUSIQUE GLACEE 

OF ALL strivers after the Ideal none have 
so kindly a method as the architects re- 
sponsible for those pleasing structures termed 
French pastry. Whatever they create is deli- 
cate, delectable, imbued with sweetness. Put- 
ting aside the thought of future fame, these 
gentle artificers devote their labor to works 
as perishable as they are exquisite : meringues, 
sculptured in ambrosial stucco, that melt to 
nothing; roseate cakelets of which the crim- 
son splendor endures no longer than a sunset; 

[72] 



BIZARRE 

kisses that are all too brief; tarts which, frail 
as flowers, succumb quickly to hunger in the 
dessert. These crust craftsmen pour forth rich- 
ness as song-birds do, creating rapture for but 
a precious moment. If ordinary architecture 
is "frozen music," then surely this Gallic re- 
finement of it is ^^musique glacee!* 

There are many styles, ranging from Per- 
pendicular Gothic to Powdered Rococo — so 
many, in fact, that one could scarcely hope to 
masticate them all at a single sitting. (Two or 
three is the most I have ever been able to ac- 
count for.) Yet each style, if found in its pur- 
ity, merits attention as an embodiment of good 
taste. For even the humblest cream puff, de- 
spite the looseness of its design and the un- 
pretentiousness of its exterior, has an interior 
well worth investigating. 

Perhaps the most important landmark in 
all the realm of pastry is the tradition-hal- 
lowed and chocolate-roofed eclair, whose long 
nave affords sanctuary for whipped cream or 
custard. (Not necessarily chocolate-roofedy 
however : the eaves may be tinged instead with 
a soft patina of cafe au lait.) This mellow- 

[73] 



BIZARRE 

hued pile, eminently edible, is cherished by 
multitudes of devotees. 

Another structure beautiful in ruin is the 
massive patty that serves as donjon-keep for 
oysters. Upon its crumbling ramparts parsley 
has found root, and encircling its fissured base 
is a broad moat of gravy. Gaunt, sugarlesss; 
no oyster can hope to escape. 

An equally notable tower is the stately white 
charlotte russe. Its impenetrable wall of 
cardboard, re-enforced inside with a doughty 
thickness of cake, rises sheer from the glacis 
of the plate and terminates in crenelated 
battlements over the edge of which hang 
masses of cream, ready for the invader. Upon 
the topmost pinnacle is posted a sentinel 
cherry. 

Of contrastingly mild aspect are the various 
crisp terraces — those luxuriant Hanging Gar- 
dens, where fruits of every sort are spread out 
in gorgeous profusion: rows of gold-gleaming 
apricots; neat hedges of orange plugs; happy 
pears and orderly better-halves of peaches; a 
bed of sugar-fed strawberries, each tucked in 
snugly; grapes chaliced in fluted pie crust; 

[74] 



BIZARRE 

jocund apple chips and banana checkers, cud- 
dled cosily slice against slice. Truly a para- 
dise in pastry 1 

And there are a host of other fair shapes: 
the pantheon-like Kossuth cake, beneath the 
low dome of which is a votive offering of 
cream; the amazing custard skyscraper, with 
its innumerable floors, no walls, and gaily iced 
roof; the Byzantine baba au rhum, inlaid with 
tutti-frutti mosaics and steeped in subtle en- 
chantment ; and countless others — fanes, 
kiosks, minarets, pavilions, reliquaries of 
jam — baffling description or digestion. 

Frail, ephemeral, created with no thought 
of permanence ; and yet we should hardly en- 
joy them more if they were built of everlast- 
ing marble. The craftsmen who design them, 
scorning personal glory, do not sign their 
works. For theirs is the true aesthetic spirit, so 
rare in this commercial age. Their handiwork 
faithfully bears out the precept "Tart for 
Tart^s Sake." 



[75] 



THE CARE OF THE HUSBAND 

THE average young wife is regrettably in- 
experienced in the matter of husbands. 
Unless it has been her fortune to have a wise 
mother or a divorce, she is likely to be quite 
ignorant of how to care for and train the "big 
stranger" who comes into her life. There- 
fore these precepts of friendly counsel may 
not seem to the matrimonial novice altogether 
amiss. The advice I would give is simple (in 
the fullest sense of the word) ; so that after 
the young wife has had a few husbands, she 
can dispense with it, if not sooner. 

Feeding. — This is the most important prob- 
lem a wife has to face. The husband must be 
made to feel that he is well fed. Otherwise he 
will not be contented and docile. 

During the first week after marriage, when 
he is still quite infantile and tender to the 
point of mushiness, he may be fed from the 
hand or spoon. This method will be found 
especially satisfactory in cases where the hus- 
band shows symptoms of sickly sentimentality. 



BIZARRE 

Throughout the entire first month he will 
be so demanding of care, so bewildered by 
the strange new world in which he finds him- 
self, as to be barely able to maintain sanity; 
in short, he will be so soso that she will have 
to prepare all the food herself, or at least make 
him think she does. 

But later a change of diet will be found nec- 
essary. He will demand scientifically pre- 
pared foods. If the change is managed in the 
right way, it can be accomplished with only 
slight upset to his disposition. Simply alter 
the feeding formula so that the total quantity 
is lessened and the proportion of sugar and 
burnt materials is increased. It will soon take 
effect. In a day or two he will say, with a 
worried look, ^^Darling, I'm afraid the cook- 
ing is too much for you." And you know what 
he really means. After that the transition to 
avowedly professional cooking will be quite 
painless. 

Outings and Play, — During the first few 
months the husband will not need many out- 
ings. He will be happy and contented if al- 
lowed to romp about the house. Such toys as 



BIZJRRE 

hammers, picture wire, curtain rods, etc., will 
keep him occupied. 

Later, however, there will come a period 
of restlessness. Then you must take him out 
more and more, and let him run and play w^ith 
other husbands — after you have made sure, of 
course, that they are good, well-behaved hus- 
bands. The companionship of these innocent 
sports will tend to make him one himself. 

When, as time goes by, he reaches the stage 
where he begins to take notice, the wife must 
be very careful, for he is highly impression- 
able. At this time a wife will do well to look 
out for her husband herself, instead of en- 
trusting him to some empty-headed girl, whom 
she may not really know at all. If he needs 
amusement let her divert him with brightly- 
colored silks and baubles w^hich she wears and 
he pays for. Let her take him to see the pretty 
theater, and show him the beautiful moun- 
tains and the big blue ocean, and tell him fairy 
stories about economy, and teach him to draw 
nice big cheques in his little cheque book. 

Discipline cannot begin too early. The hus- 
band must be taught that he can only have the 

[7S] 



BIZARRE 

things that his wife decides are best for him, 
and that no protesting on his part will do any 
good. If he proves fretful, chide him by 
threatening to go live with your mother. If, 
after that, he is still unruly, threaten to have 
your mother come live with you. 

In this way he will soon learn to mind. In- 
deed, before long you will be able to show 
him off before company with the assurance 
that he will behave just as you have trained 
him to ; and you will have the satisfaction of 
hearing your friends declare he does you cre- 
dit. 

Awakening his mind. — This is one of the 
chief duties and responsibilities of wifehood. 
It cannot be shirked. For while no husband 
is expected to know anything at marriage (the 
fact that he got married attests that), he is ex- 
pected a year or so later to look intelligent 
when the lady next to him at dinner discusses 
Coue and Scriabine, and to know that Gauguin 
is not something to be got from a bootlegger. 
For him not to know these things would be a 
reflection on his home training, or, in other 
words, his wife. She will be considered neg- 

[79] 



BIZARRE 

ligent unless she has instilled into his ru- 
dimentary mind a smattering of whatever is 
accounted smart. For every wife is judged 
by the way she brings up her husband. 

Note. — If in the above treatise I have borrowed from the 
learned doctors who have written concerning the Care of the 
Baby, I am sorry; for I see no prospect of ever being able to 
pay them back. Even this small note of mine will be dis- 
counted. 



[80] 



TERMINOLOGY OF TARDINESS 

OUR late demented newspapers are in a 
plight. They are no longer afflicted with 
a shortage of paper, but they are still cramped 
by a dearth of names for their afternoon edi- 
tions. All the stand-by titles have been ex- 
hausted. By midday the "Home Edition,^ 
"Night Edition," and "Special Extra" have 
come and gone, and there is still the whole 
afternoon with nothing left to tempt the tired 
business man but various grades of "Finals." 
New nomenclature is needed, names that will 
stir the imagination and summon the cents. 

Desirous of doing what I can toward allevi- 
ating this distressing situation, I venture to 
suggest the following schedule : 

8 A. M. — Late Edition — One star 

9 A. M. — Extremely Late Edition — 

Two stars 

10 A. M. — Inexcusably Late Edition — 

Three stars 

1 1 A. M. — Hopelessly Late Edition — 

One constellation 

181] 



BIZARRE 

12 M. —Midnight Edition — 
Two constellations 

1 P. M.— To-morrow Morning Edition- 

Grow/) of planets 

2 P. M. — To-morrow Afternoon Edition- 

Corn/)/^/^ solar system 

3 P. M. — Day- After-Tomorrow Edition- 

' Comet 

4 P. M.— Next- Week Edition— 

Large comet 

5 P. M.— Next-Month Edition— 

Unusually large comet 

6 P. M.— Next- Year Edition— 

Complete zodiac 

7 P. M. — Special Doomsday Extra — 

Milky way and nebulae 



[82] 



OPPRESSORS OF THE MEEK 

I AM not afraid of bloated bondholders. 
I suspect that they are just humans like 
myself, only that they have money. 

But I am afraid of their servants. They are 
not human. No one ever sav^ them eat or 
sleep or smile. 

My millionaire host may overlook the fact 
that I am using the salad-fork for the fish ; not 
so his English butler. This austere personage 
takes note of my error in silence, and, when 
the salad course arrives, steals up behind me 
like Nemesis, and lays by my plate the fork 
that correct form demands. I feel chastened. 

His eye is always upon me. I can't even 
take a sip of water without his calling atten- 
tion to it by stealthily refilling my glass. 

If he didn't watch me so closely when I am 
helping myself, I wouldn't be so nervous. As 
it is, my hand trembles under his grueling 
stare. Just at the critical moment when my 
tongful of asparagus, conveyed like a hot coal, 
is poised in mid-air between the serving-dish 

[83] 




My host may overlook the fact that I am ming the salad fork for 
fish; not so his English butler. 



BIZARRE 

and my plate, I flinch, and there is a green-and- 
white avalanche. I make a frantic slap at it 
as it falls, and by good luck it lands on the 
plate. To be sure, some of the stalks are cran- 
ing their necks perilously over the edge, but 
that is a small matter compared with what 
might have happened. I rake them into the 
middle of the plate, sit gasping at the thought 
of my narrow escape. 

There is an awkward pause. The bon mot 
I was about to utter apropos of an opera I had 
never heard has left my mind entirely. I can't 
think of anything to say. Finally, in despera- 
tion, I remark idiotically to the dowager at 
my left, "I love asparagus; don't you?" 

The next time he passes a dish, I lose my 
nerve. I lift my hand to help myself, and 
then, as I catch his eye, draw back, shaking 
my head. No, I won't take any chances. 

After that I keep to a strict diet, eating only 
the things that appear on my plate when it is 
put down in front of me. If the plate arrives 
naked and empty, naked and empty it remains, 
even though the course consist of my favorite 
delicacy. I suffer the pangs of Tantalus. 

[85] 



BIZARRE 

Alligator-pear salad — more to be desired 
than gold, yea, than much fine gold — is offered 
to me. I covet it. Everything gastronomic in 
my nature craves it, but cowardly fear re- 
strains me (it looks slippery), and I refuse it. 
I could almost weep. 

As the dinner proceeds and my modified 
hunger-strike continues, I begin to regain con- 
fidence. I feel that my abstemiousness, imply- 
ing as it does a jaded palate and an aristocratic 
indigestion, is highly fashionable. I fancy that 
in refusing ambrosia I am showing a godlike 
superiority. 

I expand with self-assurance. Just watch 
me startle these plutocrats with my scorn of 
their costly food. I'll make myself the lion of 
the evening. 

"May I help you to shortcake, sir?" asks 
a low, ironically respectful voice. 

My pride collapses. The butler has seen 
through me to the cowardice in my heart. 
From his lofty pinnacle he stoops to succor 
me. But I rebel. 

"I'll help myself, thank you," I retort, 
for I am on my mettle now, and boldly prize 

[86] 



BIZARRE 

off a towering segment of the dessert. Would 
/ let a menial reveal to the whole table that 
I was afraid to help myself? Never 1 Why, I'd 
sooner — 

Dizzily the creamy thing totters, keels o^er, 
and falls with a sickening flop, a mushy sound, 
as of the impact of a wet sponge. Juicy red 
berries gambol hither and thither. 

For a moment the shortcake lies helplessly 
on its side like a jellyfish that the tide has left. 
But only for a moment; for a wrecking-crew, 
made up of the butler and his assistant, comes 
hurrying on the scene. With emergency plate 
and scraper they remove the debris, while I 
turn purple and clutch at my collar for air. 
Then, after a mortifying amount of crumb- 
gleaning and cream-mopping, they spread a 
napkin before me in the presence of my swell 
friends, as if to shield the cloth from further 
depredations I draw back to allow them to 
put it there, and in so doing squash a hidden 
strawberry against my waistcoat As a final 
humiliation, a fresh piece of shortcake is 
brought to me already on a plate. 

If there is anything more formidable than 

[87] 



BIZARRE 

an English butler, it is an English valet Some- 
body else's valet, I mean ; for I suppose that 
if a person had one long enough, he could get 
so that he wouldn't be afraid of him. But as 
for a perfectly strange English valet 1 

"Your key, please, sir," demands Hawkins 
upon my arrival at my friend's summer pal- 
ace. He bows slightly. 

"What key?" I ask uneasily. 

"The key to your traveling-bag, sir." 

I am just stopping overnight on my way 
home from a house party in the woods, and all 
my spare raiment is soiled and bedraggled. 

"So I can unpack your things, sir," threatens 
the Great Mogul. 

"Never mind, thank you," I stammer. "I 've 
lost the key." 

"Very good, sir," he replies and goes. 

But not permanently. When I return to my 
room at midnight, elated over having trounced 
my host in countless games of billiards, I am 
met at the door by my oppressor. In his hand 
is a small object. 

"I fetched a locksmith out from the city, 

[88] 



BIZARRE 

sir, and 'ad 'im make this for you, sir. It fits 
quite correctly, sir." 

And one glance about the room — from the 
snaggle-tooth comb on the dresser to the frayed 
pajamas the mussiness of which no festive lay- 
ing out can hide — makes me aware of my utter 
ignominy. 

Since when I have confined my week-end 
visiting exclusively to lumber camps. 



.891 



PUTTING PEDAGOGY ACROSS 

THERE is much well-meaning propa- 
ganda in progress for the preservation of 
professors. Alumni are appealed to, bankers 
are buttonholed, and in every college club the 
diagram showing the Big Game play by play 
has been replaced by a dial showing how many 
millions have been garnered to date for the 
fund; all this in order that the saying "Live 
and learn" may be reversible as "Be learned 
and yet live." 

Wouldn't it be more humane (instead of 
giving the professors money, to which they are 
not accustomed) to teach them how to "sell" 
themselves? Today every one is paid accord- 
ing to how completely the public or the pluto- 
crats are "sold" on him .Only salesmanship 
can save the scholars. 

The time is ripe for some gilt-edged grad 
such as Morton K. Mung, President of the 
Newark Noodle Corporation, to announce, 
when stalked by the subscription squad : "No, 
gentlemen of the Adopt a Professor Com- 

[90] 



BIZARRE 

mittee, your suggestion that by donating seven 
cents a day I keep an instructor in paleontology 
from starvation, or be godfather to an author- 
ity on Sanscrit at eight cents, strikes me as 
impractical. With the cost of living rising 
again, next year they will want nine and ten 
cents — and you see the position that would 
put us in. 

*'No, gentlemen, I'll do better. I'll solve 
this situation once for all by loaning my gen- 
eral sales manager, Mr. Blat, to dear old 
Weehawken for two months, and he will give 
the members of the Faculty the same tutoring 
course he gives the men we send out on the 
road. Within a year after they leave his hands 
these same profs you've mentioned will be 
writing 'Success Through Sanscrit' and 'How 
I made My Pile with Paleontology' for the 
American Magazine/* 

At the conclusion of this loyal speech the 
committee would give a long cheer and depart 
checkless but with a new vision. 

And, sure enough, the pale pedagogues 
would emerge from Mr. Blat's snappy seminar 
simply exuding system. They would possess 

[91] 



BIZARRE 

the Power to Meet Men, the Personality that 
Wins. Laboratory recluses would burst forth 
primed to impress with Bigger Biology — 
Contains More Bunk. 

The Sanscrit savant, formerly threadbare, 
but now a nifty dresser, would immediately 
hop a train for New York and breeze into the 
office of Hugh G. Wads, senior member of 
Wads & Wads and Chairman of the Trustees 
of Weehawken University. 

"Good morning, Mr. Wads," he would say 
aggressively. "I've come here this morning to 
talk Vedas." 

"Vedas? I don't get you. Never heard of 
such a stock. It isn't listed on the big board, 
and if it's traded in on the Curb, the dealings 
must be pretty small. Besides, I thought you 
were a professor at Weehawken." 

"Right. I am a professor, if you choose to 
put it that way. Technically, though, I'm a 
promoter, and my proposition is VEDAS 
(Trade mark copyrighted 2000 B. C.)." 

"Vedas? I still don't get you." 

"Ah, that is precisely why I am here. I was 
sure you would want to know — Cigar? — ^Well, 

[92] 



BIZARRE 

Vedas are the wisdom songs of India. Mel- 
lowed by forty centuries in the parchment. 
One hundred per cent Hindu. Classy yet con- 
servative; noble yet nobby. You know what 
caste is among the Brahmins? — well, that's 
how exclusive these are!" 

"Indeed." 

"Yes, and I'm offering them for immediate 
delivery to students." 

"But how does this concern me?" 

"I was just getting to that. This is a propo- 
sition which requires considerable capital for 
its development. At the present time only 
seven students have asked for Vedas, yet I have 
estimated that the supply of Vedas now mel- 
lowing out in India is enough for at least 
180,000 students. Which means that if we 
created the demand — ^why, think of the busi- 
ness we could do 1 When you come right down 
to it, a Veda, when presented in the right way, 
can be as catchy as a Kewpie." 

"Hm. How much money would you need 
to start with?" 

"Fifty thousand dollars. Besides my salary, 
which would be $15,000 outright, plus a bonus 

[93] 



BIZARRE 

of one and one-half cents per Veda per student, 
there would be the cost of advertising in the 
college catalogue, the conducting of a circu- 
larizing campaign to a selected list of student 
prospects and the publication of a promotion 
organ to be entitled 'India Ink.' Then, too, of 
course, I would have to have a commission on 
gross tuition receipts and text book sales and 
an ample expense account for entertaining in 
the class-room and in my home. Now will 
you kindly put your name here on the dotted 
line?" 

"Before I guarantee you all this money, tell 
me one thing. What is the real value of these 
Vedas?" 

'They are the quaint quintessence of con- 
servatism, and will occupy youthful minds 
menaced by modernism." 

"I'll sign." 

Succored by the science of salesmanship, 
any professor would be able to achieve afflu- 
ence. Fortunes would rise from footnotes; and 
there would be big money made in biblio- 
graphy. 



[94] 



COACHING FROM THE SIDE-LINES 



THANKS to the 
roadside advertise- 
ments, driving a car 
has become as easy as 
playing a pianola. You 
just watch the instruc- 
tions that appear along 
the edge, and regulate 
your levers and pedals 
accordingly. Thus, 
when you see: 

DANGEROUS 
CURVE 

Sound Raspon 
— you reach instinc- 
tively for the button 
of your electric horn. 
Later, seeing: 

SHARP DESCENT 

Apply Eureka Non- 
Slip-able Brake 
-you comply gracefully. A mere twist of the 
[95] 




BIZARRE 

wrist or dislocation of the ankle does the trick. 

He that reads may run. Any man who has 
ever watched an organist pull out stops and 
push them in again can become a motor vir- 
tuoso. Any woman accustomed to following 
instructions in cutting out a dress pattern, can 
grasp the idea as easily as, when told to, she 
grasps the lever which operates BiNGO's 
NORTHPOLEON RADIATOR COOLER. It is SO 
simple that it is imbecile. 

Every peculiarity of the route is heralded. 
All its little irregularities, its deviations from 
straightness, its bad declines and sudden up- 
pishnesses, even the small faults which an 
easy-going person would overlook, are held 
up sternly in warning. 

GUSTY CORNER 
Raise Breez-o Extension Wind-Shield 

SANDY STRETCH 

Spray Gears with Anti-Grit 

PUDDLES 

Apply Splashol Emergency Mud-Guard 



[96] 



BIZARRE 

RAILROAD CROSSING 

Put Ear to Locomotive Detectaphone 

DANGEROUS BOULDER 

Before Ramming This Make Sure Your 

Achilles Collision Buffer is 

Properly Adjusted 

VILLAGE SPEED TRAP 

Apply Backfire with Ready Constable 
Exterminator 

Occasionally, as a relief from the faults of 
the road, its favorable points are dwelt on. 
Thus, 

MOUNTAIN VIEW 

Enjoy it Through Auto- Flex Non- 
Refractory Goggles 

In general, however, the emphasis is upon the 
perils of the way, as — 

Only 1 Mile to 
HOTEL SOAKUM 

(Here no specific instructions are given, it 
being understood that the accessory involved 

[97] 



BIZARRE 

is one's pocketbook and that the directions 
are: "Open All the Way.") 

The system has one drawback. The signs 
never fail, yet there is such a thing as trusting 
them too implicity. I knew a man who, as 
the result of trying to obey seven signs telling 
him to "Be Sure to Dine At" as many dif- 
ferent inns, stripped the lining of his esopha- 
gus. And I knew of another man — a timid, 
earnest, nervous old gentleman — who de- 
pended on signs so completely that one day, 
at a dangerous part of the road, being sud- 
denly confronted with the command : 

USE PLEXO 

he fell into a panic. "Plexo, plexo!" he mut- 
tered in bewilderment. "Where is the plexo 
lever? I can't find the plexo button! Some- 
thing terrible will happen unless I find it." 

It did. As, with trembling fingers, he 
fumbled through the entire outfit of attach- 
ments, he forgot to steer, and unluckily ran 
off the edge of a pecipice; so that he did not 
live to learn that plexo was a massage cream. 



[98] 



FAST AND LOOSE 

HERE is no con- 
stancy so affecting 
as that of a faith- 
ful button. Friends 
may be devoted; 
yet they seek your 
company partly 
for the pleasure of 
it. Dogs may show 
the uttermost fidel- 
ity; but you feed 
them. But the at- 
tachment of but- 
tons is without taint of self : it is pure, spon- 
taneous. 

This loyalty is the more remarkable when 
you consider how empty their lives are. The 
outlook through their buttonholes is but a 
narrow one. Their daily labor, a mere 
mechanical buttoning into and out of an un- 
congenial flap, is deadeningly monotonous. (I 
have seldom known a button whose heart was 




[99] 



BIZARRE 

really in its work.) In surroundings so little 
adapted to the building up of character, they 
display a stanchness that is akin to stoicism. 
Indeed, many a button will stick doggedly to 
an old weatherbeaten garment long after the 
periSdious nap has fled. 

There are, unfortunately, buttons wanting 
in probity, deceitful buttons that pretend to 
be strongly attached to you when detained by 
but a single thread, irresponsible butttons that 
fly off at a tangent, immodest buttons (of the 
cloth-covered variety) that disrobe in public. 
But deliberately vicious buttons are rare. The 
fact is, few buttons would go to the bad, were 
it not for the heartless indifference of their 
owners. Too often a headstrong young button, 
that might easily have been saved had it been 
brought up short the moment it showed signs 
of looseness, is allowed to reach the end of its 
rope, fall, and be utterly lost. 

And the dereliction of one may mean the 
ruin of its family. I was told of a sad case, 
once, w^here an entire clan of brow^n buttons, 
dwelling happily together on the front of a 
coat and waistcoat — polished, distinctive but- 

[100] 



BIZARRE 

tons they were, not be matched anywhere — 
were cruelly banished, because of a single 
erring member. 

While to neglect buttons is most reprehen- 
sible, there is such a thing as showing them 
too much indulgence. For buttons must not be 
coddled : when toyed with, they droop. 

Tender-hearted women, actuated by sym- 
pathy and not realizing the consequences of 
what they were doing, have been known to 
pamper buttons. Because a button has a pleas- 
ant, open countenance, one of these misguided 
persons will support it on her costume in idle- 
ness. She may even surround herself with a 
retinue of glittering sycophants that never 
knew a buttonhole — great saucerlike hangers- 
on, lolling on their stems; brazen braggado- 
cios, flashing with insolent militarism; and 
puny silken pettinesses, mere pills of buttons. 
Often I have been shocked to see a swarm of 
these drones perched indolently on the show 
part of a garment while, underneath, a squad- 
ron of industrious hooks and eyes grappled 
with the work to be done. 

Such sights are, to thoughtful people, almost 

[101] 



BIZARRE 

as depressing as the massacre of helpless shirt 
buttons by a baleful flatiron. Are buttons to 
become effete? Will they, in the course of gen- 
erations of dolce far niente, lose their stamina? 
The signs are ominous. 



1102] 




THE PRIMROSE PATHOLOGY 

I AM laying an ego. With the assistance of 
a soako-analyst I am overhauling my in- 
stincts, liberating my innate masterfulness. 
Just wait till you see my rebuilt personality. 

It's wonderful what the right soako-analyst 
can do to your complexes and your finances. 
My soako is a woman, of course. Male soakos 
are best for feminine mind-patients; but any 
man who needs to have his psychic self re- 
vamped should hand over his unconscious to 
a svmDathetic lady soako. The attunement is 

[ 103 ] 



BIZARRE 

lovelier. She can more understandingly sepa- 
rate him from his inhibitions and his dollars. 

My soako and I, we have talks by the hour. 
At fifty dollars per. We talk about criminals 
and insane people and how everybody's crazy 
if they only knew it. She explains how that 
dream I had after eating that stringy Welch 
rarebit — that dream about throwing the size 
twelve overshoes at the canary — proves that 
I secretly desire to murder Uncle Alfred and 
elope with Mary Garden. If I could just com- 
mit that homicide and meet Mary, these an- 
noying conflicts would clear and leave my un- 
conscious as serenely blank as my conscious. 
So far, Uncle and Mary are still having it 
out atavistically in my foreconscious. I must 
eat some more Welch rarebit. 

Before I went to this nerve therapeutist I 
had fears. But she has cured me. She is all 
nerve. I thought there were some things one 
could not mention to a lady. I thought that 
when visiting a lady, even by appointment 
(oflSce hours: 9 — S) one could hardly make 
certain allusions without incurring a "Sir! 
Leave this house instantly and never let me 
hear your conversation again 1" 

[104] 



BIZARRE 

But now that I have been initiated into the 
New Freudom, I know that the automatic 
prehensile response is another fifty on my bill. 

So I am learning, progressing. A new men- 
tal day is breaking and so is my bank account. 
The dun is near. 

But when I get my mind — what'U I do with 
it? 

I think I'll become a soako myself and take 
in lady patients. 



[105] 



FIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD 




HIS world would be 
a far different 
place if there were 
peace among pens. 
As it is, however, 
every pen wears a 
drop of ink on its 
shoulder. 

Not even the 
tender ministra- 
tions of chamois 
cloth will soothe 
its savage heart. 

It is deaf to sweet 

reasonableness. Returning drunk from the 
inkwell, it will smutch the hand that fed it, 
cast blots upon the fairest names, and ravish 
virgin sheets of paper. And when you try to 
force it to a more civilized way of behaving, 
you discover it has its points crossed. 

A pen thus divided against itself will not 
write. There must be freedom for the black 
fluid. There must be perfect harmony — tvvo 

[106] 



BIZARRE 

prongs with but a single point, two parts that 
meet as one. Disunion is a sign of weakness. 

I had a pen once whose prongs became 
estranged. They were egoists: each followed 
his individual bent, and was determined to 
make his own mark in his own field. For the 
sake of appearances, they took their meals of 
ink together, but immediately afterward, when 
pressure was brought to bear upon them, they 
separated. Yet when one of them, striving too 
hard after originality, broke under the strain, 
his widow was left desolate. 

More domestic in an old-fashioned way is 
that staunch, blunt family, the Stubbs. They 
are firm and substantial sort of pens. By peo- 
ple who dislike them they are called phleg- 
matic, stodgy, close, stififnibbed; and it must 
be admitted, they do lack the sprightliness of 
the Sharps; but, after all, these unyielding 
puritans, with their heavy touch, are more 
trustworthy than their acute but volatile cou- 
sins. For temperament in a pen finds vent 
in sudden splutterings. 

The difference in their natures is evidenced 
by the way they meet obstacles. The Stubbs, 

[107] 



BIZARRE 

plodding along doggedly, overcome all haz- 
ards in the paper; whereas the Sharps, trip- 
ping nonchalantly, come to grief at the first 
bunker, and before they get started again, 
waste several strokes and gouge the course. 
And when the Sharps attempt to run the gaunt- 
let of expensive linen stationery (the higher 
the price, the higher the ridges), they get held 
up at every cable crossing. But there is a kind 
of paper — smooth, slippery, insidious — that 
prompts both the Sharps and the Stubbs to 
evil ways. They know they are doing wrong, 
however; for they are ashamed, and conceal 
their tracks, rendering all tracing impossible. 

It is a great pity that pens are not more con- 
sistent about their ink giving. One moment 
they are stingy, and the next lavish. Perhaps 
this may be due to absent-mindedness. 

Beginning a letter to a crabbed old relative, 
you say to your pen, "Give me a little ink for 
*Dear Uncle Jonathan.' " 

It ignores the request. You urge again. Still 
it is thinking of something else. "Here, wake 
up, now!" (You shake it violently.) "Give me 
some ink!" 

[108] 



BIZARRE 

"Why, certainly," it replies effusively. 
"Take a blot." 

And "Dear Uncle Jonathan" is buried with 
deep mourning. 

Haphazard as their outgivings appear to 
be, I have a theory that they are in reality 
quite logical; for I have noticed that pens 
spend most ink on things that are worth most. 
Thus, a pen that would grudge to disburse 
a single minim on a cheap sheet of a pad, will 
gladly expend all it has upon a costly embroi- 
dered tablecloth. And it finds the flyleaf of a 
handsome book (which if separate from the 
volume it would regard as a mere scrap of 
paper) amazingly absorbing. If it take a 
fancy to something large and sumptuous, such 
as an oriental rug, and yet not have on hand 
sufficient ink for such an outlay, it will appro- 
priate it with a deposit of spot splash. 

However little aptitude a pen may have for 
writing, it is sure to display rare skill as a 
fisherman. In the most unpromising inkwell 
it will catch deep sea monsters that astound 
you. It will spear great flounders of blotting 
paper and wriggly eels of string. It will drag 

[109] 



BIZARRE 

up from the bottom wreckage of forgotten 
times, prehistoric flora and fauna — an antique 
rubber band, a female tress (perhaps of some 
ink-nymph long dead or discharged), a tack 
bent with age, a perfectly preserved shoe but- 
ton, a less perfectly preserved mummy of a 
fly. 

The perseverance of this follower of Izaak 
Walton is admirable. It will cast patiently 
again and again without a single dribble, and 
then, all at once, it will come struggling trium- 
phantly to the surface with a whale of a June 
bug it has harpooned. Whereupon, as is the 
custom with fishermen who write, it will make 
a grand splurge of its catch on paper. 

In order to prevent such piscatorial dippi- 
ness, pen fanciers have bred the fountain spe- 
cies, the latest variety of which is self-spilling. 
Pens of this artificially produced species are 
very nervous. They have to be handled with 
extreme care. For example, if one of them 
is held upside down, all the ink runs to its 
head, and there is danger of a hemorrhage. 
Its digestive system is poor: it regurgitates and 
bubbles at the mouth. The least thing upsets 

[110] 



BIZARRE 

its stomach. If you forget to put its cap on, 
even in mild weather, it contracts a serious 
congestion of the throat; with the result that 
the next letter you write proves dry-point etch- 
ing. 

Taken all in all, pens have a great deal to 
answer for. The record they have left on the 
pages of history is a black one. Many a per- 
son who has sat down to write something 
bright and optimistic, has been so disillus- 
ioned and embittered by his pen, that he has 
ended by hacking a hymn of hate or drooling 
a dirge of despair. Which accounts for most 
of the world's harsh diplomacy and morbid 
literature. 

Even this essay was originally intended to 
be cheerful. 



[1111 



ENLIGHTENMENT 

Ar LAST I have found out the awful 
truth about humanity. I never even sus- 
pected it. Till last evening I went along my 
way cheerfully, blindly, never guessing that 
my fellow-men were steeped in evil. 

But now I know. My eyes have been opened. 
P'or last night I went to one of those enlight- 
ening film dramas that reveal life as it is. It 
was called *'Her Blackest Sin," and it com- 
prised nine reels of terrible truth. 

It was one of those fine moral sermons to 
which every mother ought to take her son, and 
every niece ought to take her uncle, and every 
stepaunt ought to take her Pekingese. 

I only wish my daughter could have seen 
it; but as I haven't any daughter, she couldn't 
have. 

This drama shows how a handsome but 
thoughtless woman may sink in sin without 
ever meaning to. Yes, the strange and pitiful 
part about it is that she really never intended 
to be a fallen, crime-seared creature. She sins 
witlessly: she is scenarioed into it. Perhaps 

[112] 




She never really intended to become steeped in sin: she was 
scenarioed into it. 



BIZJRRE 

she is too anxious to please. She appears at 
wild cabarets and wears gowns that are cut to 
the quick, not because she desires to of her own 
accord, but because it is expected of her by the 
audience. Lack of firmness leads to her un- 
doing: she is first pliant, then supple, then 
sinuous. She displays too little backbone, and 
too much. 

Poor woman, what chance has she amid so 
many dress suits? Only too late does she learn 
that stiff bosoms cover none but hard hearts, 
and that there is no gleam so sinister as that 
of a silk hat, covering as it does baldness of the 
baldest sort. 

Innocent at first, hardly a reel passes before 
she begins to stop and work her face, just the 
way the villains stop and work their faces. (Of 
course, being still a modest woman, she does 
this only in the privacy of a close-up.) By the 
seventh reel even her high-minded husband 
has become afflicted with the taint, and is stop- 
ping and working his face. 

And so the drama progresses, growing 
b-acker and more enlightening every minute. 
I can't be too grateful to the producers of this 
film for the unflinching way in which they 

[114] 



BIZARRE 

accepted the responsibility of my innocence 
and warned me. If they had not, I should 
probably have gone to the end of my days 
without ever knowing that people w^ere at bot- 
tom only smiling criminals. 

But now, thank goodness, Tm warned and 
on my guard. I'm posted on sin. When a 
man comes up to me and shakes my hand, I'll 
know he's a hawk looking for a home to break 
up ; and when a woman smiles at me, I'll know 
she's a vampire. 

They won't catch me! I'll just watch them 
surreptitiously when they are of¥ their guard 
until I see them working their faces, and then 
I'll have them! 

For now I am an expert on evil. That film 
showed me the thrilling seductions of a life of 
vice; so that if I am ever confronted by them 
I shall be able to recognize them at once and 
say how do you do. And at the end there was 
one of those solemn moral warnings, such as 
everybody thinks everybody else is supposed 
to need; so in future I shall know what to 
avoid in that line. 

And this entire transformation of my life 
cost me only thirty-three cents. 
[115] 



HOLIDAY MISGIVINGS 

HEN, o n 




w 



Christmas 
night, I take a pri- 
vate view of the 
collection of pres- 
ents I have re- 
ceived, I realize 
that I am a much 
misunderstood 
person. 

I sit down sadly 
and wonder what 
I could have done 
to create such an 
impression. Is 
there something 
queer about me? 
If so, then would- 
n't it have been 
more tactful, more 
kind, to have come 
to me and told me 
of it, instead of 
thus brutally proclaiming it to the world? 

[116] 



BIZARRE 

But that is the way people are: they will 
serenely assume things they wouldn't have the 
face to mention. 

Those morbid socks! — half hose and half a 
disease. The loom that made them must have 
been degenerate. It is plain that they were 
never intended to be put on, because the paste- 
board document that lurks in the bottom of 
the box declares they are "guaranteed against 
any sort of wear." And these were esteemed 
suitable associates for my feet! 

I have no recollection of sniffling, in public ; 
yet here are nine dozen handkerchiefs, an out- 
fit for someone with chronic coryza. As for 
the assemblage of pocketbooks, purses, wallets, 
coin holders, etc., I only hope that after I have 
paid my holiday bills there will be enough 
money left to half-way fill the pocketbook I 
have already. 

But the crowd that seems most oppressive 
is that of the calendars. Am I really so absent- 
minded as to require seven engagement pads? 
Am I so lax about settling my accounts that 
my butcher and grocer and milkman feel 
called upon to supply me the means of know- 
ing what day of the month it is? 
[117] 



BIZARRE 

Anything may pass for a calendar, so long 
as it complies with the law by having a little 
batch of months attached to the bottom like 
an appendix: — a snapshot of Cousin Ger- 
trude's baby (oh, the deuce! I suppose I was 
expected to give that kid something for Christ- 
mas!) ; a pastoral chromo, entitled '^Shearing 
the Lambs," sent me by a firm of brokers; a 
picture of a child in a nightie saying its pray- 
ers, with the compliments of the Schweinler 
Beef Packing Co.; a hand-tinted but feebly 
glued print of Paul and Virginia, inscribed, 
"Jones and Bergfeldt, Plumbers." 

One calendar, consisting of a sheaf of large 
placards, each purporting to exhibit a speci- 
men of female beauty, is so throttled by its 
silken cord that when February 1st arrives 
and I attempt to give one of the beauties the 
flop-over in order that I may gaze on the next 
for a while, the situation proves too tense. The 
eyelet suddenly splits into an outlet, and the 
jilted maiden, cast off by her sisters, collapses 
upon the floor. 

All of which is most distressing; but no 
more so than the notion that women seem to 

[118] 



BIZARRE 

have of what a man likes. I shall never forget 
the pair of slippers that Aunt Josephine be- 
stowed upon me last year. They were what 
are technically known as mules, but in reality 
they were a couple of long rafts, each with an 
arching toe-cabin that would have accommo- 
dated both feet. The low racing sterns ex- 
tended so far aft of my heels that the latter 
stood almost amidships. 

Navigation was difficult. They kept run- 
ning afoul of each other; so that I would sud- 
denly find my starboard foot partly on the port 
slipper and mostly on the floor. Sometimes 
one of them would dart ahead several lengths 
and capsize, obliging me to turn skipper. No 
matter how earnestly I lifted their bows, their 
sterns always dragged. A landsman would 
have said that my progress resembled pump- 
ing a rhapsody on a pianola, or skiing in the 
Alps. 

The unreasonableness of these mules reached 
a climax one morning while I was visiting 
the Cholmondeley-Browdens. I encountered 
my hostess unexepectedly as I was returning 
from my bath. In the excitement of the mo- 
ment, both slippers bolted, one of them per- 

[119] 



BIZARRE 

forming a spectacular flip-flap, and the other 
skidding through the balustrade of the stair- 
way and landing below in a globe of goldfish ; 
while I made my escape in a state of pedal 
nudity. 

As for the neckties I have received — truly, 
Love is blind 1 



[120] 



ALL, ALL ARE GONE, THE OLD 
FAMILIAR FACADES 

NOWADAYS when it is hard for the 
casual observer to distinguish Some- 
body's Mother from Somebody's Jazz Baby, 
it is not to be wondered at that houses as well 
as humans are disguising their age. Victorian 
brownstone mansions that later sank to board- 
ing-house seediness now renew their youth as 
the ''Rubens Studios" or "Haddon Cham- 
bers" ; drab office buildings, yielding to a sud- 
den access of sand, take on new complexions 
as talcumy white as those of the flappers pass- 
ing by. 

He would be a tactless and cruel man who 
would say, "I know when that one's corner 
stone was laid." Or, ''My great uncle knew 
that one when it was only three stories high." 
Or, "It didn't have that cornice until its gables 
began to fall off." Or, "You ought to have 
seen the stoop it had before they put in the 
steel braces." 

Beauty doctoring to buildings must have be- 

C121] 



BIZARRE 

come quite an art. It takes skill to know how 
to eliminate the dark lines under tired window 
sills, lift the sagging balconies, reduce pro- 
tuberant bay windows. Only a trained chisel 
can remove a superflous ornament in a way 
that will guarantee against its reappearance. 

We are shocked, though, at the brazenly 
commercial character that certain sedate 
houses have taken on in the giddier part of 
town. Buildings that were formerly quiet 
residences, keeping themselves retiringly back 
from the bustle, and modestly shielding them- 
selves with brown balustrades, now sham.eless- 
ly come forward as close to the line as they 
dare, meeting the idle stroller halfway, not 
with lowered shades, but with broad plate- 
glass assurance, and even displaying scanda- 
lous lingerie. 

We cannot but feel that buildings thus 
bedizened in the effort to keep from being neg- 
lected, will not command the same reverence 
that used to be inspired by the mossy old manse 
or the messy old mill. Theirs is hardly the 
Age of Innocence. 

Would the old home seem as homely to you, 

[122] 



BIZARRE 

after it had been exterior decorated? Would 
it be as dear? 

Oh, much dearer! — as the real estate agent 
will tell you, or your own broker. 



[123] 




MY MUSEUM 

I CALLED her Plury. That is to say, I 
would speak of her by that endearing ap- 
pellation when she was running along smooth- 
ly and seldom missing in either cylinder. Her 
real name, however, was E. Pluribus Unum. 
You see, I had wanted an automobile, but 
found that no single make was within my 
means. So I bought Plury — just as a person 
who cannot afford beef, veal, chicken, turkey, 
lamb or pork, orders hash. Individually 

[124] 



BIZARRE 

Fords, Buicks, Overlands, Peerlesses, Sim- 
plexes, Pierce-Arrows, etc., were too expen- 
sive for me ; but collectively, combined in the 
form of second-hand Plury, I could afford 
them all, at $132.50. 

Plury was a cosmopolitan. Her rear axle 
was Italian, her steering-wheel was French, 
her magneto was Austrian, and her mud- 
guards were Belgian. It was hard to maintain 
her neutrality. For example, a German cog- 
wheel that clutched with an English one — 
scarred veterans, both of them — kept the gear 
box in a constant state of friction. (When such 
international clashes occurred, it was always 
difficult to find out which one had started the 
trouble.) Then, too, among the American- 
made parts there was much jealousy between 
those that had come from rival factories. The 
tires were of four different makes, each boast- 
ing a surface specially patented against skid- 
ding; but each strove so hard to shove the other 
three into the gutter, that all four cavorted 
about the road in a most unseemly fashion. 

Many were the heartburnings, the incom- 
patibilities of temperament, of the parts thus 

[125] 



BIZARRE 

yoked together. Whenever these dissentions 
brought matters to a standstill, I would have 
to get out and apply the monkey-wrench of 
peace. 

Plury was hardly a noble car in either ap- 
pearance or speed, yet I was genuinely fond of 
her. Her lamps had a wistful look — a look as 
innocent and helpless as that with which 
poached eggs gaze up at you before they die. 
As for her slowness, that made little differ- 
ence; because her speedometer, geared pre- 
sumably for a racing car, exaggerated. And, 
after all, what is speed but a number on a dial? 
While I saw "71" registered there I was not 
disturbed by the fact that bicyclists were pass- 
ing me. 

I admired her pluck. She would chunk 
along stoically, accepting other people's dust 
without complaint, when in a condition of 
health that would have prostrated any other 
machine. (Thoroughbreds do not show the 
greatest endurance.) Bravely she would drag 
herself home, after a hard afternoon's work, 
with a leak in her radiator and congestion in 
all her bearings. 

I used to practice vivisection on her, taking 

[126] 



BIZARRE 

her apart and putting her together in new 
ways. It was a fascinating kind of solitaire, 
solving the problem of what to do on rainy 
Sundays. In a few hours' time I could shuffle 
the parts and deal out an entirely new model. 
Under my care Plury changed her shape with 
ultrafashionable frequency. A model that I 
was particularly interested in trying out was 
number nine (/. e., the eighth transforma- 
tion). This was such a daring rearrangement 
that it seemed too wonderful to be true. But 
it worked, and thrillingly. In this form 
Plury exceeded all her previous speed rec- 
ords. The speedometer dial registered 87, and 
a swarm of gnats had hard work keeping up 
with us. 

Proceeding at this reckless pace, we ap- 
proached a hilly curve marked "DANGER: 
DRIVE SLOWLY." I changed gear. The 
cogs emitted a grating, crunching sound, as 
of quartz in a stone-crusher, and then sub- 
sided. I got out to view their death grapple. 

But I had no sooner set foot upon the ground 
than the roar of an infuriated claxon startled 
me so that I leaped clear aside into the ditch. 

[127] 



BIZARRE 

In that instant a huge Fiat, armed with a 
brazen fender, swung around the curve and 
rammed Plury in the radiator. 

Plury splattered like a charlotte russe hit 
by a sledgehammer. The road and neighbor- 
ing fields were full of her. 

The liveried chauffeur of the Fiat got out 
and began to brush the dust from the front 
of his car. A frightened fat man picked him- 
self up from the floor of the tonneau and called 
to me, "Are you badly hurt?" 

"No," I replied. "Fm all right, I think." 

"Goodl" he said, in a tone of great relief. 
"Then let's settle the damages at once, for I 
don't want this thing to get into the papers." 
With a shaky hand he drew out a checkbook. 
"What was the value of your car?" 

I hesitated. 

"Would you consider five thousand suffi- 
cient indemnity to close the whole matter — 
personal injuries, property damages, and 
everything?" 

I considered it! 

And after he had gone, I fondly stooped 
and kissed Flury's tin remains. 

[1283 




ON CHAIRS— AND OFF 



AS a person who frequently sits, I should 
like to know why there are so many 
uncomfortable chairs. Why is it that people 
who are apparently mild and kind-hearted 
will foster in their homes, at their very fire- 
sides, chairs of the most insidious cruelty? 
Why will dear old ladies cherish these house- 
hold monsters, festooning them with ribbons 
and fancywork? 

Of course I realize that every chair repre- 
sents some furniture-maker's theory of beauty 

[129] 



BIZARRE 

and comfort, that every lump, ridge, and 
crook is supposed to have its aesthetic or an- 
atomic reason; what I object to is being tor- 
tured for heresy just because I am physically 
unable to agree with these theories. An in- 
nocent-looking willow rocker that stands in- 
vitingly on my aunt's veranda is built on the 
assumption that the human back is in the 
shape of an S. Perhaps the Apollo Belvedere 
may have a back like that; but not I. Mine, 
sitting in that rocker, feels more like the 
Dying Gladiator's. 

I am fond of Nature and I have the great- 
est respect for her, but my joy in things sylvan 
does not extend to rustic chairs. As parlor 
editions of the woodpile they are certainly 
ingenious, but their surface, which resembles 
that of a corduroy road, is hardly adapted to 
sitting purposes. Then, too, there are always 
a few nails in evidence. And I can never re- 
sist picking at the loose shreds of bark on the 
arms, with the result that, before I know it, 
I am sure to skin quite a large place, and then 
feel mortified. 

The city cousin of the rustic chair is the 

[130] 



BIZARRE 

high-backed carved seat. This has a lion's 
head that catches you at the nape of the neck, 
and a couple of scrolls for your shoulder- 
blades. The seat itself is a huge slab of wood 
that feels like adamant. This chair looks best 
against the wall, and the fact that it weighs 
about fifty pounds is one reason why it gen- 
erally stays there. 

Another massive chair is the Morris. It 
indeed took the imagination of a poet to con- 
ceive of sitting on a folding-bed that was only 
half folded. When I get into one of these 
contrivances its bedlike quality makes me so 
drowsy that I almost fall asleep, yet its chair- 
like quality keeps me awake — with the result 
that I remain in a semi-comatose condition, 
from which I rouse myself occasionally to 
climb out and shift the rod to another notch. 

A variety that is not to be relied on — much 
less, sat on — is the loop-the-loop species, which 
is found in cheap restaurants and at amateur 
theatricals. This consists of a four-legged 
tambourine, backed by two loops of wood, the 
outer one in the shape of a Moorish arch and 
the inner one in the shape of a tennis racket. 

[ 131 ] 



BIZARRE 

Exactly half of these chairs in existence have 
racks under them to hold your hat and gloves, 
whereas the other half have no such racks; 
so that exactly half the times I sit on one of 
these chairs and put my hat and gloves under 
the seat those articles fall disconcertingly to 
the floor. 

A kind of rocker much in vogue is a medley 
of young banisters, a sort of improvisation on 
a turning-lathe. When new this chair emits 
a peculiar creaking sound. In the course of 
a few weeks it loosens up till quite supple, so 
that, in rocking, the various rods perform a 
complicated piston motion. This process con- 
tinues till gradually the chair reaches the stage 
where at every rock it comes apart and puts 
itself together again — or almost together. 

Best-parlor chairs run to extremes of fatness 
and leanness. They are either pampered, 
slender, gilded things — mere wisps of chairs — 
that offer a most precarious support, or fat, 
puffy, tufted affairs, satin feather-beds on 
sticks — no, not feather-beds, either, for they 
have twanging springs that tune up every time 
you sit on them. The colors of this latter vari- 

[132] 



BIZARRE 

ety may be endured in winter, but when sum- 
mer comes it is necessary to suppress them with 
linen slips. 

One interesting species, the elevated rocker, 
is nearly extinct. This curious chair, able to 
skid on rollers like any other, has a little rock- 
ing department upstairs, so that it can wobble 
to and fro on its track without doing the least 
harm in the world. 

I could speak of the personal idiosyncrasies 
of chairs, such as the trick some of them have 
of shedding their castors at the slightest provo- 
cation ; I could tell of the rocker that insisted 
on sidling away from a reading-lamp ; or the 
chair that, while not supposed to be a rocker 
at all, teetered diagonally on its northeast 
and southwest legs — but the chair I am now 
sitting on has given me such a cramp that I 
shall have to get up and take a walk. 



[133] 



MINIMS 



THE NIGHT OF THE FLEECE 

WIMLEY was the mildest man living. 
Consequently, when Molly said, in her 
most decisive tone, ^'Nonsense! I won't hear 
of your going back tonight, before youVe even 
seen our new tennis-court," he realized that 
he would have to stay over the week-end. 

Not that he didn't want to, in one way; for 
he liked Molly, and admired the way she 
bossed the servants and ran the house for her 
mother. Then, too, the weather, which seemed 
to be growing hotter every minute, would be 
far more endurable out here in Avondale 
Manor than in the city. What troubled him 
was the fact that he had not brought a hand- 
bag. 

"I'll lend you some of Father's things," she 
went on. "It will be no bother at all." 

When the evening drew to a close and bed- 
ward migration began, he was shown to the 
guest-room. 

"I hope you will find everything all right," 
said his hostess as she bid him good night 

[137] 



BIZARRE 

He replied that he was sure he would. Then 
he opened the door. The heat met him like 
a solid wall. Throwing off his coat, he went 
to the two windows to see if they could really 
be open. Yes, they were; but the thick fly- 
screening kept out any air that might have 
desired to enter. He glanced at the bed. There 
was something blue and white lying folded on 
it. As he drew nearer, he could see that this 
something was fuzzy. Picking it up, he dis- 
covered it to be a pair of woolen pajamas. 
Horrors! Not even in the bitterest winter 
could his skin endure the feel of wool. He 
wondered if Molly's father ever really wore 
such things. Perhaps his wife had given them 
to him, and perhaps that was why the old 
gentleman was staying so long in South Amer- 
ica. 

Midnight found Wimley still looking the 
pajamas squarely in the fuzz. An awful 
thought was in his mind : What would Molly 
and her mother think of him if they found 
them unrumpled and therefore unused? 

He slid one leg into the proper section: the 
flannel drew like a mild mustard-plaster. Then 

[138] 



BIZARRE 

he pulled on the other: he was engulfed. A 
hippopotamus would have felt comfortable in 
them at the north pole. 

He drew the fuzzy cord several feet before 
he tied it, then put on the ulster. It had a 
huge pocket, capable of containing a table- 
cloth, that hung over the spot where his ap- 
pendix would have been if he had been inter- 
nally left-handed. Noting that his feet had 
disappeared, he turned up the bottoms of the 
trousers four times, so that each ankle was 
neatly encircled with a doughnut-shaped 
buffer. 

Then, after throwing back all the covers, he 
snapped out the light and got into bed. It 
had one of those patent soft mattresses that, 
sinking in, hold the body in bas-relief. He 
rolled and floundered on the thing, but at 
every flounder he sank deeper. It was a quick- 
sand of a bed. 

He recalled Victor Hugo's account of the 
unfortunate traveler who perished in just such 
a way: how first his feet disappeared, then his 
knees, then his waist, till at last there was 
nothing but a waving hand, and then that went. 

[139] 



BIZARRE 

He was just preparing to wave when his 
attention was distracted by the realization that 
his whole body was tingling with the heat. 
He seized the jacket by the middle button and 
pumped it in and out, trying to pump in some 
cool air. There was none to pump. Gasping 
for breath, he crawled to a window. Still no 
air. 

He decided to remove the fly-screening. 
There was a little groove in the side of the 
frame where you were supposed to put in your 
fingers and pull. He put in his fingers and 
pulled. Nothing happened. Then he did so 
again, considerably harder, and the screen 
went sailing out of the window. He leaned 
out just in time to see it crash upon a row of 
potted plants. His heart stood still. Had 
any one heard the noise? He listened for sev- 
eral minutes in agonizing suspense. 

Here at the window it was a little cooler 
than in the bed. Why not emulate the Japa- 
nese and sleep on the floor? Splendid! No 
more squashy, clinging mattress for him! 
Fetching a pillow, he stretched out in true 
oriental style. 

[140] 



BIZARRE 

Quite right, the floor did not sink or yield 
in any manner. It even gave prominence to 
certain bony places which the bed had kindly 
overlooked. Resisting the thick woolen ank- 
lets, it complicated the disposal of his lower 
limbs. Finally, however, a gentle sleep "slid 
into his soul." 

But about an hour later the slippery thing 
slid out again at the mere announcement by a 
rooster that dawn had arrived. Other roosters, 
wishing to remove all doubts on the subject, 
repeated with emphasis that joyous day was at 
hand. Then a large fly buzzed in through the 
window to say good morning. It perched so- 
ciably on his left temple, and began rubbing 
its two front legs together in a jovial manner. 

But Wimley was in no mood for holding a 
levee. He brushed the fly away. It executed 
a boomerang trajectory, lit again on the same 
spot, and began rubbing its legs as before. He 
brushed it away again. It perched again in 
exactly the same spot. He was indignant : was 
he to be at the mercy of a miserable little fly? 
It seemed he was. 

He got up and paced the floor. Happen- 

[141] 



BIZARRE 

ing to catch a glimpse of his face in the mir- 
ror, he beheld a flourishing crop of black 
bristles. His whiskers stood ready to be har- 
vested, and his faithful razor was fifty miles 
away! Panic seized him. He thought of the 
window-screen catastrophe, of the quicksand 
bed, of the hard floor; his heart sank. But 
when he thought of a day in those whiskers, 
another night in those pajamas, and then to- 
morrow's whiskers, he felt that instant flight 
was the only thing possible. 

Hastily he pulled on his clothes, which felt 
sticky and moldy and spoke eloquently of 
yesterday's dust and heat. Then he opened the 
door and peered out into the hall. No one 
was in sight; but other doors were open, and 
out of one of these came a rumbling snore. 
Could it be Molly's? This ominous sound was 
more than he could bear; he retreated. 

Back in the room once more, he tiptoed 
over to the screenless window to see what his 
chances would be in that quarter. Ah, there, 
close by, was a vine-covered trellis that 
reached down to the ground! With palpitat- 
ing heart he swung himself over to it. It 

[142] 



BIZARRE 

oscillated slightly as it received his weight. 

The thorny crimson rambler was decidedly 
cloying. He no sooner succeeded in detach- 
ing himself from one twig, than two more just 
like it whipped out and hooked him. He 
reached down with his right foot — down, 
down — where the devil was that next cross- 
piece? At last he found it, together with about 
a dozen new thorns. But when he started to 
bring down his left foot, the twigs from above 
insisted on escorting him to the lower perch; 
so that he was now in the clutches of the thorns 
of both levels. His coat tails had soared to the 
middle of his back, and his side pockets were 
nestling under his armpits. The air was full 
of perfume and profanity. 

All at once there was a crack and a tear, 
and something gave way. The next instant he 
and the vine were descending rapidly in each 
other's embrace. 

A clump of lofty hollyhocks suffered mar- 
tyrdom in breaking his fall They gave their 
sap to save him and complete the ruin of his 
clothes. Disentangling himself from the 
wreckage, he dashed off down the nearest 

[143] 




mUmmmmmm 



The mr was full of perfume and profanity. 



BIZARRE 

path, under arbors and pergolas, around sun- 
dials and summer-houses, past marble seats 
with mottos that spoke of rest; till, just as he 
thought he had reached the edge of the laby- 
rinth, he found himself at the end of a blind 
alley. In front of him was a dribbling foun- 
tain, a vapid-faced female clad in dew and 
idiotically pouring water out of a parlor 
ornament. On the pedestal was carved, "A 
garden is a lovesome spot, God wot." A brown 
measuring-worm was measuring the lady for 
garments she needed but would never wear. 
And the water dribbled and dribbled. 

But Wimley wasn't thirsty. Striding over 
a row of conch-shells and broad-jumping a 
plot of geraniums, he made for a six-foot 
hedge that appeared to be the boundary of the 
garden. A desperate spring, followed by a 
frantic scramble, brought him to the top of it. 
He wriggled there like a bareback rider on a 
bucking porcupine. 

Ping I sounded a tennis-racket close beside 
him. Lifting his face from the foliage, he 
beheld Molly enjoying an early morning game 
with her thirteen-year-old brother. 

[145] 



BIZARRE 

"My advantage!" she called as she raised 
her racket to serve. But catching an aston- 
ished look on the boy's face, she stopped short 
and glanced at the hedge. "A tramp!" she 
exclaimed, moving toward the spot. 

The would-be fugitive struggled to tumble 
back on the other side. His head and one 
shoulder disappeared from view. 

"Grab him! Don't let him get away!" she 
cried excitedly. 

The boy did so, seizing one foot while she 
seized the other. 

Then, from the depths of the foliage came 
a voice as shy and as plaintive as that of the 
hermit thrush, murmuring, "It 's Wimley!" 



[146] 




BLACK JITNEY 

The Auto-Biography of a Ford 

(A twentieth-century revision of ^^Black 
Beauty'') 

THE first thing I can remember was being 
shoveled out of a great incubator, called 
a factory, along with several hundred brothers 
and sisters. AH the men in that factory wore 
diamond shirt-studs. 

While I was wondering at this, an old 
motor-truck named Mercury said to me with 
feeling : 

"Ah, if all the workmen in the world could 
be as well off as the ones here, there would be 
no more poverty, and no people so poor as to 
have to ride in fords!" 

I was loaded on a freight-car and carried 

[147] 



BIZARRE 

many, many miles. The car jolted so terribly 
that I should have gone all to pieces had I 
not been built for jarring. None of the train- 
crew showed me any sympathy. They were 
wicked men, and used language that frequent- 
ly sent a tinkle of shame to my mud-guards. 
I did not then know, as I do now, that the 
purest-minded automobile has to endure all its 
life words and tones of the most shocking sort. 

My first master was a careful and conscien- 
tious man. He had a large garage full of 
fords, and he always kept a sharp eye on the 
door to make sure that nobody who walked 
out carried off one of us. 

One day a man came in with a twenty-dollar 
bill that he wanted changed. 

"Sorry," said my master, "but all I have in 
my cash-drawer is $2.69. I '11 have to give you 
the rest in fords." 

Whereupon he handed him me and one of 
my brothers and three extra tires, which just 
made up the amount. 

This new master, whose name was Mr. 
Pious, was very good and humane. He drove 
me with a gentle foot, and he would say to 
his children : "Be kind to Black Jitney. Never 

[148] 



BIZARRE 

scratch him or bend him." The chubby little 
fellows grew so fond of me that before long 
they would trot sturdily beside me. 

Their mother, however, was a cold, imper- 
ious woman. She cared nothing for the feel- 
ings of a ford. She would drive me at a heart- 
less pace till my radiator was parched with 
thirst and my gears fairly cried out for oil. 
Speed was her one desire, and naturally / 
could not satisfy her. Even when I ran so 
fast that the effort made me shake from top 
to tires and I was in danger of losing my 
lamps, she would call me ^4ce-wagon" and 
"rattle-trap" and other cruel names, and refer 
unkindly to the fact that she could count the 
palings of the fences that we passed. Finally, 
this hard-hearted woman prevailed upon her 
husband to sell me and buy a big sixteen- 
cylinder Pope-Gregory. This car, as I after- 
ward learned, was so vicious that the very 
first time she took it out for an airing it as- 
saulted three helpless chickens and a pig. 

My next master was a young man whose 
private life was such as no well-brought-up 
automobile could have approved of. Every 
evening, after he had kept me in the garage all 

[149] 



BIZARRE 

day long fuming with impatience and spilled 
gasolene, he would make me carry him for 
hours and hours with some young woman who 
ought to have known better. 

What sights and sounds I had to endure — 
I who had always kept the strictest decorum! 
Worst of all, his deplorable conduct began to 
affect me. I found myself thinking thoughts 
which I had never permitted to enter my mind 
before, and looking with more interest than 
I should at seductive, satin-trimmed limou- 
sines. My morality was in danger of skid- 
ding. 

One evening while my master was dining 
with a young woman at a roadside inn I was 
left to wait in the adjoining garage. But I 
was not alone; for close beside me stood a 
little French landaulet, the most immorally 
alluring car I had ever seen. Her lines were 
exquisitely shapely; she was a goddess on 
wheels. 

''Good evening," she sparked enticingly. 
"Aren't you the car that stood next to me at the 
country club last Thursday night?" 

There was a daredevil gleam in her lamps 
which set my carbureter a-splutter. 

[ 150 ] 



BIZARRE 

"Yes," I answered, infatuated. 

"I knew you, even though you tried to hide 
your name. Wasn't it lovely— just us two in 
the moonlight, touching tires!" 

A quiver ran through me. I knew that un- 
less I could back out in a hurry, I was lost. I 
tried hastily to reverse ; she had me complete- 
ly short-circuited. 

Heaven knows what might have happened 
had not my master entered at that moment and 
saved me. The instant he laid hold of my 
crank I gave vent to my pent-up emotions in 
a way that nearly burst my muffler; and when 
he pressed down the pedal, I fairly leaped 
through the door in flight. 

As it was, I was seething with nervousness. 
My motor throbbed so violently that I could 
hardly hold still while the young woman 
climbed into her seat. 

Off we sped down a dark and narrow road. 
I had no control over myself, and neither did 
the people I was carrying seem to have con- 
trol over me or over themselves. 

All at once my left fore tire exploded vio- 
lently, veering me aside into a mile-post. My 
master and the young woman landed in a 

[151] 



BIZARRE 

clump of bushes, but I was maimed for life. 
Bad example and bad association had ruined 
me. Many an innocent, unsophisticated car 
is thus driven to destruction all because its 
owner fails to live up to his moral responsibil- 
ity. 

I lay there all the rest of the night, while 
my gasolene ebbed away drop by drop. In 
the morning some men came out from the city 
and dragged me in. They performed a most 
painful operation on me, amputating various 
shattered members and grafting on several 
feet of tin. 

Then, before I was really convalescent, I 
was sold to a new master. This person was a 
harsh-speaking, unfeeling man, who cared for 
nothing but money. He drove up and down 
the streets all day, inviting people to get in 
and ride; and when they did get in, he forced 
each one of them to surrender a nickel. 

He was very cruel to me. Instead of show- 
ing any consideration for my broken health, 
he would say openly, "Well, I'll get what use 
I can out of this one, and then buy another." 
Not once did he ever throw a blanket over my 
hood in cold weather or steady my slipping 

[152] 



BIZARRE 

wheels with chains. He was so penurious that 
whenever he drove me through a crowded 
street, he would shut off my gasolene, and 
make me run on what I could breathe in from 
the exhausts of other cars. 

Wretched indeed is the old age of an auto- 
mobile. Bereft of the beauty it had when it 
was a new model, it declines into squalid neg- 
lect. No amount of painting and enameling 
can restore its youthful bloom. 

One day this master was driving me through 
an amusement park when I broke down com- 
pletely. He got out, and prodded me brutally 
in the magneto. I had not the strength to 
budge. 

He grew very angry, and the people in the 
tonneau demanded their money back. A crowd 
of idlers gathered to witness my humiliation. 

Becoming purple in the face, my master 
nearly twisted my crank off. He heaped upon 
me the most insulting and unjust imprecations, 
as though it were my fault that my health was 
gone, even making distressing insinuations as 
to my ancestry. Words failing him, he fell 
to belaboring me with a hammer and monkey- 
wrench. 

[153] 



BIZARRE 

The spectators looked on with indifference. 
Some of them even urged him maliciously to 
the attack. 

"I 'd sell the thing for fifty cents!" he ex- 
claimed, with a shocking oath. 

Suddenly an elderly, kindly-faced man 
pushed his way forward through the crowd. 
"I '11 give you that for it," he said. ''Only stop 
battering it!" 

My master left off hitting me. He looked 
surlily at the speaker and then at the crowd. 

"You can have it," he said between his teeth. 

Hot tears of gratitude dropped from my cyl- 
inders as my deliverer pushed me to his near- 
by home. From that moment to this I have 
never known anything but happiness. 

For my dear old master is a retired gas- 
fitter whose hobby is landscape gardening. 
Relieving me of my tired wheels, he has pas- 
tured me in the center of his front yard and 
planted me full of geraniums. I am lovingly 
taken care of. My kind master waters me 
regularly and curries me with a trowel. My 
working days are over. But what makes me 
happiest is the knowledge that I can never be 
sold. 

[154] 




LIGHT BREAKFAST 

*'TT ENRY dear," said Mrs. Brush gently, 
-*- -»■ without raising her pretty head from 

the pillow, '4t 's nearly half-past eight." 
* What I" exclaimed her husband, sitting up 

vehemently and staring at the clock. "Where 

is Maria? She's supposed to be here by seven, 

isn't she?" 

"Perhaps she didn't come today." 

[ 155 ] 



BIZARRE 

"That good-for-nothing darky! I '11 go and 
investigate." Plunging energetically into his 
bath-robe and slippers, he sallied forth on a 
tour of the apartment. 

No Maria sweeping in the hall ; no Maria 
straightening up the living-room or library; 
no Maria dusting in the dining-room; no 
Maria preparing breakfast in the kitchen. 

"How provoking!" sighed Mrs. Brush. 

"Provoking? I call it outrageous." 

"Yes; I 'm sorry, dear, that this will make 
you late to your office." 

"Oh, I 'm not bothered about that, for I 
Ve just put through some new efficiency sys- 
tems which enable me to accomplish a tremen- 
dous amount of work in a very short time. 
What I can't stand is having that darky impose 
on us." 

"But, dearest, maybe she 's sick." 

"Then she could have sent us word by tele- 
phone. No; she 's taking advantage of the 
fact that you are young and inexperienced. 
But she '11 be sorry for it. I '11 discharge her 
myself." 

"Now, please don't get excited, dear. If you 

[156] 



BIZARRE 

discharged her, it might be days and days be- 
fore we could get another." 

"That wouldn't make any difference. We 
'd simply take our meals out. Except breakfast, 
of course. I V get that." 

"You?" 

"Yes. We '11 start this morning. If you '11 
attend to the dusting — later in the day, I 
mean — I'll bring you your coffee before you 
get up, just as you 're used to having it." 

"But, Henry—" 

"It won't be any trouble at all. Nothing 
is, no matter how unfamiliar it may be to you, 
if you go at it intelligently, scientifically." 
When Mr. Brush was obsessed with an idea, 
it was useless to oppose him. The best policy 
was to let it take its course. "As I have often 
told you," he continued, "housekeeping could 
be greatly simplified if you women would 
only—" 

Seeing that he was about to launch into a 
homily on efBciency, such as she had heard 
him deliver at least twenty times in the three 
months she had been married to him, she said: 

"If you're going to get breakfast, hadn't you 
better hurry and take your bath?" 

[157] 



BIZARRE 

"That 's so," he admitted. Shuffling briskly 
to the bath-room, he was soon foaming at the 
mouth with tooth-paste. 

There was a loud buzzing sound from the 
direction of the kitchen. 

"Henry!" called Mrs. Brush, "there goes 
the dumb-waiter. Shall I answer it?" 

"No; I'll ho," he replied pastily out of the 
corner of his mouth. Still busily agitating his 
tooth-brush, so as not to waste any time, he 
paddled to the dumbwaiter and called : "He'o! 
Whash you wa*?" 

"Garbage!" replied a gruff voice. A rat- 
tling of ropes announced that the car was on 
its way. 

Mr. Brush opened the "sanitary garbage 
closet," and, screwing up his face and tooth- 
brush, seized something that was mighty un- 
like a rose. He held the pail out at arm's- 
length as he carried it to the dumb-waiter. 

Buzz, buzz, buzz, went the buzzer. 

"Huh?" gurgled Mr. Brush, nervously 
swallowing a generous amount of tooth-paste. 

"Garbage!" repeated the voice. 

Mr. Brush looked helplessly at the can on 
[ 158 ] 



BIZARRE 

the dumb-waiter and then at his incapacitated 
hands. 

"Put your garbage on!" roared the voice. 

Mr. Brush sputtered; then, extracting the 
tooth-brush with the fourth and fifth knuckles 
of his left hand, he shouted back indignantly: 

"I 'id!" 

"Then why didn't you say so?" And down 
went the dumb-waiter with a jerk. 

Mr. Brush returned to the bathroom. As 
he was in the midst of shaving, the buzzer 
sounded again. This time he was on the alert 
and ready for any argument. Leaving his 
razor, but not his lather, he hurried back to 
the kitchen in a combative mood. 

"What do you want?" he yelled defiantly 
as he opened the door of the dumb-waiter. 
There was no answer ; but facing him on the 
shelf of the car stood his empty pail, silent, 
stolid, indifferent to his bravado. He snatched 
it off and returned to his ablutions. 

On account of the extreme lateness of the 
hour, he decided to finish off with a quick 
shower-bath, first hot and then cold. Just as 
he removed his last garment, the buzzer 
sounded again. 

[159] 



BIZARRE 

"Aw, go ahead and buzz !" he said between 
his teeth. 

As he stepped into the hot downpour, the 
door-bell rang. 

"Whoever that is can wait." 

But apparently the person in question had 
no desire to do so, for the bell sounded again 
and again. To complete the symphony, the 
telephone chimed in with its merry tune. 

"Gwendolyn!" called Mr. Brush, distract- 
edly amid the roar of waters. 

But she, having fallen into a pleasant doze 
while waiting for her breakfast, did not hear 
him. The bells and buzzer had by this time 
settled into a sustained chord like that of the 
whistles at New-year's. 

Bounding out of the tub to the mat, Mr. 
Brush wrapped his form, which still glistened 
with pearly drops, in his bath-robe, and slip 
slopped frigidly down the hall. 

"Hello!" he cried, snatching off the tele- 
phone-receiver. "No, this is not Schmitt- 
berger the butcher!" Then he darted to the 
front door. Opening it, he found the postman 
waiting with a letter. 

[160] 



BIZARRE 

^^Two cents due, please." 

The buzzer continued its heavy droning, 
and the telephone started up again. 

^^Two cents, two cents," repeated Mr. Brush 
in befuddlement. 

The postman stared. 

*^Two cents; yes, two cents," reiterated Mr. 
Brush, groping immodestly for pockets where 
there were none. 

/Tou said that before." 

*'Oh, excuse me ! I'll get it right off. Now, 
where did I put that purse? Let me think." 
But thinking in the neighborhood of that tele- 
phone was an impossibility. He would have 
to quiet the thing. So, clapping the receiver 
to his ear, he protested, ^^Hello! hello!" 

"Will you kindly give me Schmittberger's 
butcher shop?" 

"Good grief!" he exclaimed, letting the re- 
ceiver fall. It swung by its tail, pendulum- 
wise, barking infuriated clicks. 

Mr. Brush staggered to the bedroom. With 
reeling brain, he ransacked all his chiffonier 
drawers for the purse which was lying in plain 
view on top. By the time he had discovered 

[161] 



BIZARRE 

it and started back to the door, the buzzer in 
the kitchen was having delirium tremens. 
Floundering to the spot, he gasped : 

"What do you want?" 

"Ice!" was the husky reply. 

"All right, I '11 send it down. No, I mean, 
you send it up." 

As the dumb-waiter rose, the temperature 
fell, and Mr. Brush soon found himself in the 
presence of a beautiful blue berg. With chat- 
tering teeth, he reached forward and drew it 
to him. The door of the dumb-waiter closed 
automatically, and he was left alone in the kit- 
chen with the iceberg in his arms. 

How to open the ice-box was a problem. 
After attempting unsuccessfully to cajole the 
catch by fondling it with the corner of the 
berg, he tried nudging it with his elbow. It 
would not take the hint. Indeed, it refused 
utterly to move until he got down on his knees 
before it and rubbed it with his shoulder. 

Finally, however, the door opened, disclos- 
ing a rival berg, attended by a throng of 
bottles, siphons, and butter-crocks. A cold, 
inhospitable crowd they were, resenting any 
intrusion. 

[162] 



BIZARRE 

Thus rebuffed, Mr. Brush, who felt as 
though he were being frozen and cauterized 
at the same time, deposited the berg upon the 
cover of the wash-tubs. It coasted forward, 
threatening an avalanche. Clutching it at the 
brink, he paused, and wondered what he 
would do next. 

The door-bell saved him the trouble of de- 
ciding. He had entirely forgotten the post- 
man! Setting the berg upon a chair, he scur- 
ried out, and and offered him a dollar bill, 
chattering apologies for the delay. 

"Haven't you anything smaller?" asked the 
postman, impatiently. 

"N-no, I d-don't think so." 

"Then why did you keep me here all this 
time? I '11 have to come back later." 

He started off. 

"Stop ! Wait a moment! I 'd rather make you 
a present of the ninety-eight cents. Oh, glory! 
that '11 have to be gone through with all over 
again" 

Discouraged and shivering, he leaned 
against the side of the doorway. In so doing, 
his eye fell upon a collection of objects that 
had been deposited in front of the sill — the 

[ 163 ] 



BIZARRE 

morning newspaper, a bottle of milk, one of 
cream, and a bag containing a long loaf of 
bread. He stooped over and gathered them up 
carefully one by one. Just as he had stowed 
away the newspaper under one arm and grip- 
ped the bag with his left hand and the two 
bottles with his right, the chilliness in him 
culminated in a sneeze, and everything fell. 

Both bottles smashed. Landing just on the 
sill, they distributed their contents impartially 
outside and inside. 

Finding that the proportion of the flood 
that the bread and the newspaper were able 
to sop up was small, though they did what 
they could, Mr. Brush hastily procured a 
bucket and rag from the kitchen, where the 
ice was indulging in a flood of its own, and 
set to work mopping. As he sprawled out 
into the hallway, gingerly squeezing out rag- 
fuls of cream and broken glass, the door 
opposite was opened and a handsome woman 
appeared, attired in fashionable street dress. 
She looked him straight in the eye. 

Mr. Brush clasped his bath-robe to him, 
made a frenzied recoil, slammed the door, and 
collapsed into the pool of milk. 
1164] 



BIZARRE 

"Henry dear, is breakfast nearly ready?" 
called his loving wife. 

Enraged and dripping, he leaped up with 
sudden strength, and started for the bedroom, 
spluttering incoherent expostulations as he 
went. 

At that moment there was heard the sound 
of a latch-key, and a grinning black face ap- 
peared. 

"Good mawnin', sah. Somefin' seems to be 
spilt heah." 

Fetching a large cloth, she set to work with 
easy dexterity. 

Mr. Brush, fascinated, watched the lake 
disappear. 

"You bes' get dress', sah. Ah '11 have yo' 
breakfas' ready in a couple o' minutes." 

"Thank Heaven you 're here, Maria!" he 
said fervently. "I was almost afraid you wer^ 
n't coming." 



[165] 



THE MAN OPPOSITE 

MILDRED congratulated herself on hav- 
ing conquered her timidity. She had 
come all the way down-town by herself, had 
looked through several stores until she found 
just the curtains she wanted ; and now, ready 
to return home, she got on the 'bus as calmly 
as though she had been a New Yorker and a 
married woman all her life. 

It being the rush hour of the afternoon, the 
conveyance was quite crowded. Mildred 
thought at first that she would have to sit on 
the backward-facing bench up front, which 
she disliked ; but luckily she found a place on 
one of the seats opposite it. A moment later 
even the less-desirable bench was occupied. 

The person who took the place on it directly 
facing her was a tall, dark man of about forty, 
with piercing black eyes and an aquiline nose. 
Mildred kept encountering his glance. There 
was something about it that disturbed her. She 
flushed a little. 

His face seemed vaguely, uncomfortably 
familiar. Where had she seen him before? 

[ 166 ] 



BIZARRE 

She was sure he wasn't anyone who had waited 
on her in a shop, nor any of the tradesmen who 
came to the door of her apartment: he looked 
too much the man of the world for that. 
Neither was he one of the few friends of her 
husband whom she had had a chance to meet. 
She could not place him. Happiness, and the 
absorption that goes with it, had made her 
oblivious of outside things. 

Whoever he was, his glances rendered her 
more and more ill at ease. She looked out of 
the window, she looked up at the advertise- 
ments, she looked down at her lap. No use : 
she could feel his gaze. 

In vain did she reason with herself that he 
was not staring at her intentionally, but was 
merely directing his eyes straight ahead of 
him, as anyone might do. No; not even the 
protecting presence of the other passengers 
could reassure her. She felt almost as though 
she and the hawk-like stranger were alone in 
the conveyance. 

Several times she thought of getting out and 
taking another 'bus. But the evening was 
growing dark, and she might have to wait a 
long while in a part of town she knew nothing 

[167] 



BIZARRE 

about. And suppose he should get off after 
her! 

The blocks seemed hours apart, the halts 
at corners interminable. Passengers got out 
in twos and threes. He stayed. 

Looking down at her hands, which nervous- 
ly fingered the chain of her reticule, Mildred 
hoped and prayed he would go. But he did 
not. 

The people who had shared the bench with 
him had moved to forward-facing seats as 
soon as any were vacant. He remained where 
he was. 

It seemed she had seen that face somewhere 
— behind her, following her. 

This recollection threw her into such a fit 
of trembling that she let fall her handkerchief. 
Before she could recover it, he bent forward 
with a quick swooping motion, seized it in his 
long fingers, and held it out to her. She took 
it trembling, hardly able to murmur, ^Thank 
you." 

He appeared about to speak. 

Mildred rose in terror and retreated hastily 
to a place several seats back, across the aisle. 

What would he do? Would he follow her? 

[168] 



BIZARRE 

Were his eyes still fixed upon her? She dared 
not look; but a reflection in the window pane 
increased her fears. 

Street after street went by. The last other 
passenger got off. Still he stayed. Mildred's 
furtive observations via the reflecting window 
pane never found him looking out to ascertain 
what part of town it was. Gradually she was 
forced to the sickening conviction that he was 
watching, not for any particular street, but 
to see where she would get off. 

As her corner approached, she rang the bell. 
He rose. She moved quickly to the door. He 
followed her, smiling presumingly. 

As she stepped down from the platform, her 
knees were so weak that she almost fell. Her 
heart pounded. Instead of running, as her 
terror prompted her to, she could with difi- 
culty maintain a panting walk. 

The man followed — not hurrying, but re- 
lentlessly, like an animal that is sure of its 
prey. 

When she entered the doorway of the apart- 
ment house, he was barely ten yards behind 
her. She knew he would turn in also. He did. 

[169] 



BIZARRE 

If only she could get into the elevator and 
escape before he arrived ! 

The car was at one of the upper floors. She 
rang desperately until it appeared. The in- 
stant the iron door slid back, she flung herself 
in, gasping: 

"Quick! Take me up quickly!" 

"Yes, miss," replied the startled but drowsy 
elevator boy — as a tall form passed in after 
her. Mildred shrank into a corner, quivering. 

"Fou'th floV' announced the boy. 

She sprang out. As she staggered tottering- 
ly down the dim corridor, she heard the man 
step out of the car. 

Her latch key! Her latch key! She fumbled 
frantically in her handbag; then groped for 
the lock. 

The man drew nearer. 

She was helpless, cornered at the end of a 
dark hallway. Almost hysterical she let the 
key fall and closed her eyes. 

At that moment the door opposite was un- 
locked briskly, and a lusty young voice inside 
yelled: "Hello, Pappa!" 



[170] 




LUCY THE LITERARY AGENT 

I KNOW you will agree with me," said 
Lucy, "that these stories by Perth Dewar 
are quite remarkable, quite the most distinc- 
tive things of the kind that have been done in 
years, and that your readers will like them im- 
mensely." 

Ethridge the Editor said nothing. It was 
unwise to contradict her; for of all the per- 
sonal-touch literary agents, Lucy was the per- 
sonal-touchiest. So he let her run on and on, 
trusting that eventually she would run down. 

[171] 



BIZARRE 

Also she wasn't bad looking — in her aggres- 
sive way. 

"You've read them?" she queried suddenly, 

"Why, certainly," he lied, glancing with 
studied casualness at the Reader's Report slip 
attached to the blue manuscript cover. 

Ethridge never read anything he could pos- 
sibly avoid reading. He was one of those 
successful editors who edit by belonging to 
the best clubs and attending the right teas. 
Mere perusal of manuscripts was not partic- 
ularly in his line. 

The Report slip said: "Costume stories of 
Holland in the 17th Century. Only moderate- 
ly well done. Not suitable for this magazine." 

"Who is this Dewar person, anyhow?" 
asked Ethridge defensively. 

"You mean to say you haven't heard of him? 
Why, my dear Mr. Ethridge! Dewar is a man 
of independent means — lives on his estate 
down in Maryland and writes stories between 
fox hunts. Enormously gifted." 

She failed to add, however, that Dewar had 
offered to let her keep any money she received 
for the stories — provided she could get them 
printed. 

[172] 



BIZARRE 

Resting her white elbows on Ethridge's desk 
and eyeing him with calculating coyness, Lucy 
knew that he had not read the stories. She 
would make him wonder if she knew he hadn't. 

"What do you yourself honestly think of 
them, Mr. Ethridge? Candidly, now. You're 
always so delightfully frank with me, Mr. 
Ethridge. That's why it's such a pleasure to 
deal with you. How did they strike you?" 

"Really, Miss Leech, I don't see how in our 
magazine we could possibly — " 

"Now, Mr. Ethridge!" She held up a re- 
proving finger, laughing roguishly. "But 
what's the use of our trying to discuss imag- 
inative literature here in your busy office with 
the telephone ringing every moment — or 
threatening to ring — and your discouragingly 
pretty blonde secretary — the minx! — popping 
in continually to see if we're behaving!" 

Ethridge smiled complacently. Why be an 
ogre? 

"I tell you what. Let's have supper at my 
studio this evening," continued Lucy. "It'll 
be so much more satisfactory to discuss things 
sensibly, without interruption." 

So he did, and they did. 

[173] 



BIZARRE 

At breakfast it was finally decided that the 
series by Perth Dewar should consist of ten 
stories, including four still to be written. 

Ethridge salved his conscience by resolving 
secretly that they should all be published in 
the back of the book. 

In due course of time the first story ap- 
peared. It contained a mean reference to the 
Knights of Pythias, or Mormonism, or a for- 
mer Vice-President of the United Sates, or 
something; for which reason the issue con- 
taining it was suppressed. 

Whereupon the buried issue became a Liv- 
ing Issue. The intelligentsia rushed to the 
rescue with highbrow hue and cry. Round 
robins were circulated. Newspaper column- 
ists got sarcastic. Liberal cliques chittered. 
Perth Dewar became suddenly significant. 

The issue containing the second story was 
sold out the day it appeared. 

By the time the third one was out. Professor 
Lion Whelps, of Yale, proved in an article in 
the Sunday Times, that Dewar's attitude 
toward women was like Turgeniev's, and 
Professor Brando Methuseleh, of Columbia, 
discovered he had cadences. Sinclair Lewis 

[174] 



BIZARRE 

inserted a mention of him in the forty-ninth 
edition of ^^Babbitt." Nine British novelists 
hurried over to lecture on him. 

And Ethridge? 

He v^as made. In acknowledgement of his 
peerless editorial acumen that could dis- 
cern true genius at a glance, the directors of 
the magazine doubled his salary and gave him 
a bonus to keep him from being coaxed away 
by the "Saturday Evening Pictorial." 

And Lucy? 

Ethridge married her to keep her quiet. 



[175] 



THE CREEPING FINGERS 



RS. Whoffin's 
figure resembled 
that of the 
punch-bowl be- 
hind which she 
was standing: it 
was broad and 
squat, with a 
slight tapering 
at the base. And 
her mind was 
like the punch: 
sweetish and 
characterless, 
with scrappy 
rinds of things 
floating about in 
it. Each guest who presented a cup received 
the same dipperful and the same set of re- 
marks. 

"Good evening. I 'm so glad you could 
come! I just love hearing ghost-stories, don't 
you? See that log over there?" She pointed 




[176] 



BIZARRE 

to a huge gray hulk that lay at the side of the 
open fireplace. "That 's real driftwood, and 
it ought to give just the right kind of light. I 
found it myself on the beach, and had the gar- 
dener bring it home in a wheelbarrow. Look, 
it 's all honeycombed with age." 

A tall, serious-looking young man stepped 
forward and extended his glass. He knew 
that that was the way to please her, and she 
was the woman who he hoped and feared 
would be his mother-in-law. 

She beamed. 

"Do have another, Mr. Carson." 

He did; for he was in a desperate mood. 
He was to leave for the city on the early morn- 
ing train, and this evening would be his last 
chance to propose to Polly for several months. 
Somehow, despite his best efforts, the psycho- 
logical moment had never arrived. 

Just then Polly sailed into the room, fresh 
and rosy, in a flutter of white muslin. He put 
down the glass and hurried over to her. 

"Good evening, Polly," he said in an ardent 
undertone. "Couldn't you slip away from this 
crowd and take a stroll on the beach?" 

"No, George; I 'm hostess tonight." She 

[177] 



BIZARRE 

shook her head, including some airy little 
curls, which seemed to make light of her re- 
fusal. "We are all to gather around the hearth 
and listen to the stories." Then she added teas- 
ingly, "Besides, it is in your honor that mother 
is giving this party." 

"Yes ; she 's very kind, I 'm sure," he said 
awkwardly. 

"Think of all the trouble she has taken over 
that log 1" 

Carson faced her with squared jaw. 

"Listen to me, Polly. There is something 
serious I want to talk to you about. Before I 
leave you, I — " 

"Polly," called Mrs. Whoffin, "isn't it time 
to begin?" 

"Perhaps it is," she answered innocently. 
"What do you think, George?" 

"I think the story-telling might as well be- 
gin at once," he said stifHy. 

A few minutes later all lights were turned 
out. The score of young people had settled 
themselves about the room in comfortable 
attitudes, some on chairs and sofas, some on 
cushions on the floor, while in the midst of 
them sat the narrator, a girl of eighteen, who 

[178] 



BIZARRE 

affected a deep morbidity. Gazing into the 
fire, she began her tale as though she were in 
a trance. 

Carson sulkily picked his way after Polly 
toward a seat beside the hearth. Just as he 
was reaching it, he tripped over something 
bulky. 

"Why, that 's my log!" exclaimed Mrs. 
WhofBn, from the back of the room. "Dear! 
dear! Why hasn't anyone put it on the fire?" 
The story waited while Mrs. Whoffin scurried 
forward and personally supervised the plac- 
ing of the log upon the andirons, and then sat 
down beside the hearth opposite Polly. 

"Do go on!" cried several voices. "You 
stopped in the most exciting part." 

The narrator, looking daggers at Mrs. 
Whofiin, paused long enough to show that she 
didn't have to go on unless she wanted to, and 
then resumed her tale: 

"Suddenly, as he lay there in the haunted 
room, on the very bed where the old man had 
been murdered, he felt an invisible hand on 
the bedclothes." 

Mrs. Whoffin shuddered, and a large black 

[179] 



BIZARRE 

ant peered out of a hole in the log to see what 
was going on. 

"Then he felt a second hand more terrify- 
ing than the first." 

Beholding his home in flames, the ant rushed 
back indoors to spread the alarm. Along the 
highways of the interior he sped, a second 
Paul Revere, rousing the sleeping insects, of 
which there were many. 

"Oh!" groaned Mrs. Whoffin. 

The exodus of PauPs friends proceeded in 
orderly fashion. "Larvae and eggs first," was 
their order. Carrying their infants upon their 
backs, they filed out of the subway openings 
in steady processions. 

"The hands clutched the covers just above 
his feet. Fear paralyzed him so that he could 
neither move nor cry out." 

A party of refugees applied to Mrs. Whoffin 
for shelter. She was so absorbed in the story 
that she did not see them. 

"Then the fingers began to creep up and 
up, up and up. His flesh tingled with horror." 

Mrs. Whoffin quivered like an aspen leaf. 
She breathed hard, her eyes nearly popping. 
Other people began to feel creepy. 

[180] 



BIZARRE 

^'They clutched his knee, and — " 

Mrs. Whoffin uttered a piercing shriek, and 
clasped her knee with both hands. She was 
invaded. Then Polly screamed, and Carson 
began to slap himself on various parts of the 
anatomy. There was a general panic. Girls 
squealed and, clambering frantically upon 
chairs, shook out their lifted skirts ; young men 
stamped about wildly, mashing ants and peo- 
ple's toes in equal numbers. Mrs. Whoffin, 
tormented from head to foot, galloped in cir- 
cles, moaning, "Oh mercy! Oh mercy!" 

"Save me, George!" cried Polly, clinging 
to his arm. 

"Yes, darling!" he answered fervently. If 
the ants had been raging bulls, he would have 
saved her from them ; but they were ants, and 
their ways were devious. He hesitated, slap- 
ping himself thoughtfully. 

"Turn on the lights" yelled some one. 

"No! Don't!" screamed half a dozen shrill 
voices. 

"Save me!" repeated Polly, distractedly. 
"I can't stand this any longer! I '11 perish!" 

Struck with a swift inspiration, he caught 
her up in his arms and started for the door. 

[181] 



BIZARRE 

She made no resistance. Out of the room he 
carried her, then through the front hall, and 
down the front steps. 

Half-way down the walk she asked : 

"Where are you taking me?" 

"To the ocean." 

"Why, you clever boy!" 

People sitting on the verandas of neighbor- 
ing cottages saw in he moonlight a sight that 
electrified them with horror. A powerful 
looking maniac, with a helpless woman in his 
arms, strode across the beach and began to 
wade out into the water. Hoping to save her, 
they ran to the shore and put out in boats and 
canoes. 

"Oh," sighed the victim, blissfully, as Car- 
son let her down into the water, "it feels so 
cool — and quietr' 

"Polly!" 

"George!" 

"Row harder, Doctor!" cried the steersman 
of the nearest boat. "He's trying to strangle 
her!" 



1182] 



THE MAN WITH THE HOSE 

A FEELING of elation is like a feeling of 
alcohol. Under its stimulus a person 
may do the most brilliant things — and also the 
most grotesque. 

It was just this feeling that took hold of 
Jack Carrington when the senior member of 
the firm invited him to dine at his apartment 
on the following evening and meet "Mrs. 
Stockbridge and my daughter." During all 
the rest of the day the young college-man- 
learning-how-to-work-in-an-ofSce fairly 
walked on air, and that night, in his hall bed- 
room, he went through a sort of dress-re- 
hearsal of the role he hoped to play on the 
great occasion, resuscitating and donning his 
evening clothes to make sure that they looked 
as well as they did when he led the commence- 
ment prom six months before, and marshaling 
all the bons mots he could recollect, in order 
that his supply of "extempore" witticisms 
might be adequate. 

Still buoyed up by this feeling of elation, 

[183] 



BIZARRE 

Carrington presented himself next evening at 
the door of the sumptuous apartment-house 
where the boss lived, gave his name to one 
of the liveried grandees in attendance, and was 
shown up to E 4, a gorgeous duplex suite half 
as large as a house, and renting for twice as 
much. 

Everything went off splendidly. The boss 
unbent to a surprising degree, Mrs. Stock- 
bridge was most cordial, and the daughter 
proved to be a fascinator. What was more, 
Carrington surpassed himself as a social light. 
He told several funny stories with considera- 
ble eclat; and inspired by the thrill of the 
occasion, even thought up one or two original 
ones that surprised him as much as they im- 
pressed his hosts. When, later in the evening, 
he played bridge as the daughter's partner, he 
had a rush of hearts and aces to the hand. He 
made slams big and little at such a rate that 
Miss Stockbridge complimented him upon 
his skill. Consequently, when, after two vic- 
torious rubbers, he bid his hosts good night 
and noted from their effusiveness that he had 
made a very favorable impression, it was no 

tl84J 



BIZARRE 

wonder that he already pictured himself a 
member of the firm and the boss's son-in-law. 

As the door of the apartment closed behind 
him, he heaved a sigh of triumph. He felt 
like shouting or doing something violent. 
Tingling with pride, he strutted down the 
hallway toward the elevator. 

A shining brass fire-nozzle, jutting out pro- 
vokingly from a coil of hose, attracted his at- 
tention. It looked so like the head of some 
absurd animal that he couldn't help poking 
his finger into its mouth as he went by. His 
finger stuck. 

Facing the nozzle squarely and taking hold 
of it with his free left hand, he pulled more 
carefully. Still it stuck. The finger was be- 
ginning to swell and turn red. He tugged it 
harder, with no result. 

Concluding that lubrication was necessary, 
he leaned over and licked it, acquiring a 
strong brass taste upon his tongue. Then he 
pulled hard. More swelling. 

By this time he was in a perspiration of 
misery. He paused and tried to think clearly, 
but his mind, which had scintillated all eve- 

[185] 



BIZARRE 

ning, was now a blur. His first lucid thought 
was that he must unscrew the nozzle from the 
hose. Why, of course! How simple I But 
when he tried turning the coupling of the 
hose, the nozzle insisted on turning with it, 
and his imprisoned finger was averse to re- 
volving. 

Lapsing again into rueful speculation, he 
tried desperately to devise some means of re- 
gaining his liberty. Why not go ring the ele- 
vator bell? No; that was around the bend 
of the corridor, and his tether probably would 
not reach that far; and, besides, it would be 
awful to have to explain his plight to a liveried 
dignitary like the one who had convoyed him 
up. And suppose the elevator should arrive 
full of plutocrats coming home from the op- 
era, or high-strung women who would shriek 
when they saw him with the fire-hose? 

No, that could never be risked. He must 
think of something else. A little olive-oil 
would probably do the trick, but how could 
he get it? If he had thought of that at first 
and gone right back and asked for it, it would- 
n't have been so bad; but now, after nearly 

[186] 



BIZARRE 

half an hour, his hosts were probably in bed. 
No, it was too late to ring their door-bell now. 

Suddenly an ingenious idea occurred to 
him: he would turn on the water 2ind squirt 
his finger out! Splendid! He reached up 
and turned the wheel. It made a mournful 
creaking sound, but no water came through 
the coil of hose. "It must be shut off down- 
stairs," he thought. 

Thanks to the incessant sting of his finger 
and the maddening exasperation of the pre- 
dicament he was in, Carrington was nearly 
frantic. 

"Oh," he exclaimed, "Fll have to disturb 
them for that oil sooner or later, so I'd better 
do it right off." 

With that he started for the boss's door, 
trailing the hose after him. His heart 
thumped as he rang the bell. Standing in 
close to the wall, he kept the nozzle behind his 
back, thinking it better to explain before dis- 
playing his appendage. 

There was a sound of slippered feet, and, 
from the opposite direction, a sound of slip- 
ping hose. The door was unlocked, and the 

[187] 



BIZARRE 

remainder of the canvas-and-rubber coil that 
had kept back the water unrolled down upon 
the floor. 

'Who's there?" growled Mr. Stockbridge, 
arrayed in a bath-robe and squinting out into 
the dimly lighted corridor without his glasses. 

Mortification seemed to paralyze Carring- 
ton's speech. Bringing the nozzle forward ab- 
jectly, so that Mr. Stockbridge could see his 
plight, he faltered: 

At that moment his finger was shot like a 
bullet from a gun, and the ensuing stream of 
water caught Mr. Stockbridge squarely in the 
throat. 

Simultaneously, a supreme inspiration came 
to Carrington. 

"I'm a fireman/^ he cried in a disguised 
voice. ''Wake your family at once I" 

Whereupon, as Mr. Stockbridge rushed 
back into the apartment, Carrington, drop- 
ping the hose, made a thrilling rescue of him- 
self down the stairway, and darted into the 
street before the drowsy dignitary in the vesti- 
bule could raise his head. 

[ 188 ] 



JANGLES 



THOSE SYMPHONY CONCERT 
PROGRAMS 



METROPOLITAN .SYMPHONY 

ORCHESTRA 

Otto Culmbacher, Conductor 

Felice Elefantine, Soloiste of the evening 

I. Gastronomic Symphony 

— Kovik'Bordunov 

(a) Allegretti 

(b) Pistachio 

(c) Chianti 

(d) Risotto, con aglio 
II. LarGHETTO Culmbacher 

III. Aria from "II Campanile" Gondola 
(5IGN0RINA Elefantine) 

{The Hardwood Piano is used) 
CRITICAL COMMENTS ON THE NUMBERS 

I. Gastronomic Symphony, It is not certain 
when Ptior Kovik-Bordunov was born. His 
parents, being thrifty peasants, put him in a 
basket and left him on the steppes of Russia. 
Adopted by a Russian Princess, named Caviar 

[191] 



BIZARRE 

Vodka, he was raised as if he had been her 
own dog. His early musical inclination was 
so pronounced that he was sent to the Warsaw 
Conservatory, where he served three terms. 
Soon after being released from this institution 
he wrote "Samovar,'* the opera that made him 
famous. "Samovar'* so pleased the Czar that 
young Bordunov was given a pension and a 
bath. But alas! either his sudden success or 
the bath so affected his mind, that from that 
time on the authorities were obliged to keep 
him in confinement. The above symphony was 
written on the walls of his cell, from which it 
was transcribed after his suicide. It depicts 
the blight of all his hopes, the sorrows of 
Russia, the drowning of his fiancee, the height 
of the steppes, and the agonies of indigestion. 
The Allegretti opens with an arabesque 
tone-poem of somber sweetness, under which 
strange and varied delights are hidden. Then 
comes the minor Pistachio, weirdly oriental 
in color. This is followed by the tempestuous 
and maddening Chianti. Last of all comes 
the terrible Risotto, con aglio. Here we have 
an example of the insight of genius! By it- 

[192] 



BIZARRE 

self, the Risotto con aglio would be almost 
mild ; but coming as it does on top of the AUe- 
gretti, the Pistachio, and the Chianti, it is 
bound to produce a truly tragic finale. 

II. Larghetto. This etude is by the conduc- 
tor. (He thought this would be a good place 
to work it in, the orchestra and audience being 
powerless to restrain him.) 

Herr Otto Fedor Ivan Culmbacher was 
born of noble parents in Hofbrau, Silesia. He 
was discovered and imported to America by 
the brilliant patronesses of the Metropolitan 
Symphony Society. 

A larghetto is a little largo — one without a 
handel. A composer writes a larghetto when 
he feels something like writing a largo but 
isn't, on the whole, quite up to it. 

III. Aria from ''II Campanile/' This opera, 
though well known in Budapest and South 
America, is practically unknown in the United 
States. The aria, ''O belli spaghetti," is so 
vocally exacting that to sing its bird-like notes 
a prima donna should diet for weeks on bird- 
seed. Here are the words — which are re- 
peated fourteen times in the course of the aria. 

[193] 



BIZARRE 



THE ITALIAN 
O belli Spaghetti 



THE TRANSLATION 
Had I the wings of a 

dove, 
I would fly, I would fly 

to my love. 
I would fly, I would fly, 
Through the sky, 

through the sky, 
O bianchi confetti! I would fly, I would fly 

to my love! 
{She waddles off) 



O bianchi confetti. 

Bananni, bananni, 
E tutti f rutti— 



[194] 



HOW TO KNOW THE 
INSTRUMENTS 

(Editor's Note. — The following observations, if carefully 
studied, will enable the intelligent concertgoer to tell the dif- 
ference between an orchestra and a dress circle.) 

THE principal instrument in music is the 
v^iolin. This instrument is held fast under 
the performer's double chin and then tickled 
in the gut with a strand of horse hair until it 
cries out. Which cruel treatment reacts on its 
disposition, so that, as the little violin grows 
up into a 'cello, it becomes gloomy and mo- 
rose; and when, after a life of nagging, it 
reaches old age as a crabbed double bass and 
is relegated to the back of the orchestra, it 
spends its resentment in querulous grumbling. 
Further from the conductor than the vio- 
lins, and, consequently, more intermittent in 
their playing, are the Tootle family. Grand- 
father Tootle, the bassoon, spends his time in 
dozing: all you can hear from him is an occa- 
sional snore. Mrs. Tootle, the flute, is of a 
romantic turn of mind, doting on moonlight 
and warbling birds and babbling brooks. She 
prides herself on her limpid utterance, and 
[195] 



BIZARRE 

admonishes her little son Piccolo not to talk 
through his nose like Cousin Oboe Tootle. 
Her husband, the bass clarinet, takes himself 
very seriously — and no wonder, for to him 
falls the unpleasant duty of announcing bad 
news, such as that the hero has just died, or 
that the act is only half over. 

Quite remote from the conductor are the 
mysterious somethings that live in kettle- 
drums. What they are no one knows; but a 
watchful keeper bends over and listens to 
them, and whenever, despite his constant cork- 
screwing, they show signs of aggressiveness, 
he beats them into submission with a brace of 
bottle-mops. If this is not sufficient, he calls 
in an assistant, who cows them with the roar 
of a whanging Chinese stewpan. 

Somewhat nearer the conductor, but yet far 
enough away to be able to resist his authority 
until threatened with his stick, are the horns, 
the most vehement members of the orchestra. 
A blast from them, besides waking up the 
audience, always means something. For ex- 
ample, the martial sound of a trumpet heralds 
the approach of a conqueror or a scissors- 
grinder. 

[ 196 ] 



BIZARRE 

The old-fashioned hunting horn, from 
which the modern orchestral horn is de- 
scended, was very simple indeed. In those 
days every one was supposed to wind his horn, 
instead of buying it already wound, as we do 
now. 

Yet the modern pretzelized horn is still 
adapted for hunting purposes. Take as large 
a horn as you can conveniently carry (a 42- 
centimetre tuba is preferable) and stand under 
a tree, with the muzzle pointing up at the bird 
you desire to hunt. Then play ''Silver Threads 
Among the Gold" for two hours and ten min- 
utes, and the bird will fall lifeless into the 
horn. 



[197] 




NOTES ON PIANOS 

A PIANO is an instrument with eighty- 
eight keys and twenty installments. You 
play on the keys and pay on the installments — 
the latter being by far the more difficult per- 
formance. If you do not play in time, you 
are called down by your critics; if you do not 
pay on time, you are called on by your col- 
lectors. 

The keys are arranged in two rows — short, 
fat blondes in front, and tall, skinny brunettes 
behind. There are three pedals (one for each 
foot, and one for good measure) : the damper 
pedal (or muffler cut-out), which puts an end 
to conversation; the sostenuto pedal, which 

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helps the piano sustain what it has to sustain ; 
and the soft pedal, which is seldom used, and 
then only by request. 

There are two kinds of pianos- -uprights 
and prostrates. Uprights are used in homes 
where there is standing room only. Prostrates 
are used in concert halls — ^virtuosi prefer 
them, because they can hit a piano much 
harder when it is down. The upright piano 
is frequently pitched in A flat. It remains 
there till pitched out by the neighbors. 

An advantage that this piano possesses is 
that it keeps the player's back turned to his 
hearers, which is a great saving to his feelings. 
Another advantage is that the top serves as a 
mantelpiece annex; bric-a-brac that won't 
stand heat but will stand noise is put there. 
Anything is appropriate — cupids, shepherd- 
esses, brass bowls, painted vases. The only 
requirement for a place on this repository is 
that the object be able to make some buzzing, 
twanging, wheezing, or humming sound when 
the strings are struck. 

Prostrates are built for endurance. Their 
black finish bespeaks the hard life they lead. 

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A conflict between one of these indestructi- 
ble pianos and an irresistible pianist is called 
a recital. A non-combatant lifts the lid, and 
the fight begins. FIRST ROUND: Noc- 
turne. (Merely warming up.) SECOND 
ROUND: Etude. (Livelier, but not much 
heavy hitting.) THIRD ROUND : Scherzo. 
(Considerably hotter; fighting in close.) 
FOURTH ROUND: Appassionato. (Real 
slugging.) FIFTH ROUND: Rhapsodic. 
(Piano receives fearful punishment. Knocked 
out in final cadenza, but pianist sprains wrist.) 

In learning to play the piano, the first thing 
to acquire is a good touch, or tread (as it is 
properly called). Unfortunately, there is a 
divergence of opinion among authorities as to 
what a good tread consists in; the famous dic- 
tum of Prof. Biffski, of Moscow Conservatory, 
that you should hammer the hammers, being 
offset by the equally famous assertion of Hier- 
onimus Dudelsack, the noted Viennese peda- 
gogue, that you should not strike the ivories 
at all, but massage, or knead them. Herr 
Dudelsack and his eminent pupils maintain 
that his tread is the only normal one, that it 

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has the naturalness of a cat's walking on the 
keyboard. But the astute Russian insinuates 
that it produces tangled chords and scales that 
are short-weight. 

But these methods have been rendered obso- 
lete by the heel-and-toe technique of the play- 
erpiano. This wonderful instrument, impreg- 
nating the feet with melody and rhythm, has 
given rise to the modern dances. For a person 
who makes a habit of playing the pianola sim- 
ply has to toddle the music out of his ankles. 

Even more remarkable is the way in which 
the piano-footy has simplified musical com- 
position. The masters of the past had to toil 
away painfully with pen and ink; whereas the 
composer of today can attain the same results 
with a roll of paper and a ticket-punch. Judg- 
ing from the progress we have made and are 
still making, it is safe to predict that the com- 
poser of the future will use a shotgun. 



[201] 



THE LIFE-DRAMA OF A MUSICAL 
CRITIC 

IN FOUR CLIPPINGS 

I. ADOLESCENCE 

From the Centerville ^'Clarion" : 

LOCAL TALENT MAKES 
SPLENDID SHOWING 

THE concert held last evening in Masonic 
Hair was a great success. It certainly 
showed what Centerville could do in a musi- 
cal line. From the opening duet, played by 
Miss Violet and Miss Nancy Stubbs, to the 
very end of the program, the audience seemed 
to thoroughly enjoy every number. But the 
feature of the evening was the singing by Mr. 
Harry Bowers of '^Rocked in the Cradle of 
the Deep." This noble song gave the popular 
young druggist an opportunity to display his 
remarkable low notes. Another person de- 
serving of special mention was Miss Helen 
Smith, who, attractively dressed in pink and 
carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers, rendered 

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^'The Rosary" with great effect. All in all, 
the concert was a great event, and a consider- 
able amount of money was raised toward the 
new fire-engine. 

Abraham Lincoln Simpson, 

Music and Art Critic. 



THE 



\ SPENr 




\ 



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//. EFFERVESCENCE 

From the ''New York Chronicle" : 

GOTHAM ORCHESTRA 

PLAYS SCHNITZEL 

Warmth of Oriental Color 

Adolf Schnitzel's symphonic poem ''Aus 
Bengalien," which was admirably performed 
last evening by the Gotham Symphony Or- 
chestra, shows a masterly understanding of the 
folk-music of India. The Bengalese have 
from the earliest times been noted for their 
proficience in the arts. Their principal instru- 
ment is the bimbam, an elongated drum, 
played upon with any convenient article, such 
as an elephant's tusk or the bone of an ances- 
tor. When struck at one end, it emits the 
sound bim; when struck at the other, a clear- 
toned bam is produced: hence its curious 
name. The following melody, known as the 
"War-Song of Prince Brahmadan," gives one 
an idea of the capacity of this instrument: 
Bim-bim-bam, bim-bam-bim. 

The chorus is also characteristic : 
Bim, biml 

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At the religious ceremonies of the Benga- 
lese, the Futrib, or high priest, plays upon a 
peculiar one-toned flute, producing an effect 
of awe and mystery, as this hymn to the sun- 
god aptly illustrates : 
Too — 00 — t! 

Toot, toot-a-toot, toot-a-toot, toot; 
Too — 00 — t ! 
With this wealth of material to draw from, 
Schnitzel has constructed a work that is nearly 
perfect in form. Beginning with a soft bim- 
bam-bim, which is followed by a sinster toot, 
toot, he works up to a climax of marvelous 
contrapuntal ingenuity, in which the two 
themes are combined thus : 

Bim, toot, bam, toot-a-toot. 
Truly the apotheosis of Bengali 

A. L. S. 



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///. ACQUIESCENCE 

From the ''New York Chronicle" : 
''WASHINGTON" REPEATED 

Last night was a brilliant one at the opera. 
"Washington," the new American music- 
drama, was given for the second time, with 
the same cast as before. 

Among those who attended the performance 
were Mrs. Pierpont Astorbilt, who wore pale 
nesserole garnished with soufflee; Mr. and 
Mrs. Plantagenet Carter, the latter in an ex- 
quisite creation of blanc-mange; and Mrs. 
Sibley Harwood-Stevens, in gray limousine, 
air-cooled with insertion. 

Mrs. Reginald Carrington's guests were 
Lord and Lady Shrewby and the Due de Vau- 
rien. The latter wore a black dress-suit and a 
white shirt. 

Mrs. Gaybird was present for the first time 
since the death of her husband. She wore her 
skirt at half-mast. 

{Unsigned) 

[2061 




IV, SENESCENCE 

From the New York ^'Evening Spot" : 

BASSOON CONCERT A 

RELIEF FROM MODERNISM 

BY A. LINCOLN SIMPSON 

New York is suffering from a plethora of 
concerts. The fact that the halls are generally 
crowded is no excuse for giving so many per- 
formances. It is unfair to the critics. 

Yesterday afternoon, at the concert of the 
Gotham Symphony Society Ludwig Kase 
played that great German master-work, the 
Leberwurst bassoon concerto in F-flat major, 
opus posthumous. ("Posthumous" does not 

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in this case have its usual meaning of written 
after the defunction of the composer's brain : 
it refers to the fact that Leberwurst did not 
live to publish the work, as his audience 
lynched him when he played it from manu- 
script.) This concerto, dedicated to the com- 
poser's patron, the deaf old Duke of Pretzel- 
heim, bears the title of "Spring," and this ver- 
nal quality was admirably brought out by 
Herr Kase, particularly in the movement 
representing influenza. Indeed, it was impos- 
sible to hear his sublime sniffulations without 
being moved to profound coughing. 

Francois Grise's "Gingerbread Suite," 
scored for viola, piccolo, trombone, and ce- 
lesta, might have been interesting had it been 
more of a novelty; but, since it had been heard 
in New York five times within four years, its 
performance on this occasion was a mistake. 

The program included also a symphonic 
rhapsody on cow-boy melodies. As this is by 
an obscure native composer and has never been 
heard before, there is nothing to say about it. 



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Even people sitting behind pillars can enjoy her. 



THE SURVIVAL OF THE FATTEST 

THERE is no lightweight championship 
in opera. Stars of the first magnitude are 
of very considerable magnitude — 300 pounds 
and up. In this class are the expensive prima 
donnas and heroic tenors (the term "heroic" 
referring to their efforts to move about the 
stage). The second magnitude — 250 to 299 
pounds — includes "jilted beauty" mezzo-so- 
pranos and "hated rival" baritones. The 
third magnitude (of which no one takes any 
notice) — under 250 pounds — is made up of 
''confidante" contraltos and "noble father" 
bassos. 

Thus, it will readily be seen that fat and 
fame are synonymous. For, in navigating the 
high C's, latitude is far more important than 
longitude. 

Italian opera was made possible by the dis- 
covery of spaghetti, the serpentine food that 
produces coloratura tissue. A few miles of 
this swallowed daily will keep the palate leg- 
ijiero and the figure larghissimo. 

In like manner, beer is responsible for the 

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national opera of Germany. Who would have 
heard of Wagner if Pilsener had never been 
invented? Where could Wagner have found 
his massive Brunhildes, his slow-dying Tris- 
tans? 

Here lies the secret of the failure of our 
national music drama — ^we have spaghetti 
opera and beer opera, but no opera built on 
an American food. Emaciated from a diet of 
pebbly cereals and grape juice, our art still 
awaits the invention of the great American 
fattener. 

For fat constitutes the wonder of opera. 
When a diva who looks like a hippo surprises 
us by singing like a canary — that is something 
remarkable. When a languid mass of blubber, 
for whom the very act of standing would seem 
a supreme accomplishment, displays the lung 
energy of a steam calliope and the vocal en- 
durance of a peanut-stand whistle — we are 
astonished, overcome. 

And fat robs the tragic ending of its depres- 
sion. The sight of a normally-built woman 
expiring of heartbreak, or any other favorite 
operatic death, would be most distressing; but 

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the spectacle of a four-hundred pound con- 
sumptive, on a thickly-padded canvas-and- 
steel rock, breathing forth her everlasting last, 
like a moping walrus on a cake of ice — such 
a spectacle does not disturb us in the least, for 
we realize that all she needs is a fan. 

Indeed, the fattest never die. After a prima 
donna is no longer able to manoeuver over the 
operatic stage, she toddles along the carpet of 
the concert platform, tugging her train like a 
double-expansion freight-engine, while the 
audience applauds from sheer amazement. 
She is an immense success — even people sit- 
ting behind posts can see her. 

Thin singers perish and are forgotten (there 
never were any, anyhow) ; but the gloriously 
fat ones sing on forever. When Judgment Day 
comes and the angel blows his trumpet, he will 
have to toot it with Wagnerian fury plus 
Straussian blatancy if he hopes to be heard 
above the aigretted and tiaraed dodos who are 
still on the yell. 



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